Chemistry in the Most Literal Sense
by Snowsheba
Summary: Post-Hogwarts AU. The war leaves some in tatters, others with sharp cracks, but most with scars that will never fade – yet people move on, Draco Malfoy included, as he pursues a quiet life in chemistry. Working with Harry Potter to find a poison-savvy killer isn't how he'd have thought to be reunited, but somehow, the chemistry is exactly right. [H/D; T for swearing, death, gore]
1. aluminium oxygen neon

**I have not, do not, and will never own Harry Potter or its characters.**

**Please forgive any small mistakes or errors, because I'm sure there will be some. Onward.  
**

* * *

_Johnny is a chemist's boy  
Johnny is no more  
What Johnny thought was H__2__0  
Was H__2__SO__4_

* * *

It was a cool morning in autumn, crisp as the leaves he treaded upon on the pavement, dry as the wind that brushed the hair by his ears. He walked with the smooth elegance of one who knew how to hide, to slip past throngs of people in such a way the eye seemed to slide away, dew on a leaf; secrets swirled cloudy in the macabre hills of his mind, treacherous as the hawthorn wand in his pocket, yet he felt no alarm. He had never been caught, and as far as he was concerned, he never would be.

And, even if he were, an Unspeakable never spoke of what they did. The name in itself said as much, and its weight carried enough prestige and power to keep others' noses out of the little business he could claim to have.

An inaudible sigh escaped pale, thin lips. As much as he enjoyed his job, it had the unfortunate tendency to blow his social life into oblivion. He tried to remember the last time he had conversed with someone, gray eyes blinking once, and his mind fell short. His shoulders sank with a depressive weight, burdened with the knowledge that the revelation came without surprise.

Still, he walked on, calm and serene yet hesitant and hidden, and the muggles around him paid him no heed. He recalled a time where a lack of attention would have irked him to the point of vocalizing his frustration, somewhat fondly but mostly with a sense of embarrassment. In a world such as this, the only way to escape and be forgotten was to hide behind normalcy, to have a bland everyday life where no one ever thought to look.

It worked, at least for the moment. He feared the day a pureblood family would discover just what the Malfoy boy had been up to for all of these peaceful years. Of course, what they would learn would be almost absolutely nil, given the nature of his job; but then they would draw conclusions, and in the years since the war, those conclusions have never been all too complimentary. Never for him. He was, after all, the son of a man whose name brought a silence that hummed with tension and fear, both of which remained carefully hidden under a blank mask.

He arrived at the Ministry after locating the appropriate telephone booth and dutifully listing his name; he'd dilly-dallied on the surface long enough, and in any case, he didn't have much else other than work nowadays. He took the time going down to reflect how irrevocably broken he was, when he had nothing better to do than go to his job and come home to a small, empty flat. The war left some in tatters, others with sharp cracks, but most, like him, with scars that would never fade, no matter how invisible they seemed.

He collected a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ upon entering the Ministry and scanned the headlines as he made his way towards the hall of many doors, as he called it. _The Chosen One _was the first thing his eyes rested upon, and he didn't read the rest in full at the mere mention of _him_, instead returning his attention on getting to his office. The circular platform on which he stood seemed to remain still as the doors rotated silently around it, and by now he knew which to enter, reaching out to turn the knob and slipping into the door's cool, dark grasp with a susurrus of fabric. He tucked the paper into a fold of his coat and placed one hand on the wall, fingers gliding on the rough stone as he navigated in the darkness.

He arrived later than he liked despite his best efforts, and he devoted his time to his work as he ignored the words he had read earlier, refusing to acknowledge them with the petulance of a child. _Well, why not_, he thought. Let him be a child sometime – let him be a prissy teenager about the fact the Boy Who Lived was in the newspaper. There was no one to stop him, after all, now that he was an adult. Though… since he was an adult, he should not let an age-old grudge prevent him from reading the rest of the paper.

(He hated being logical sometimes. Life would be so much easier if he didn't have to concern himself with anything except items driven by self-interest.)

Thus, during his decided lunch break, where he settled himself in the atrium to take solace in the hum of human activity, he picked at his food with the paper lying flat before him on the table. After some hesitance, he lifted the light pages and read the article detailed on the front page; he congratulated himself wryly on being a mature adult as he did so.

_The Chosen One to Refuse to Become an Auror_

_It has been confirmed that Harry Potter will not, in fact, be joining the ranks of the Aurors, much to the shock and dismay of much of the wizarding world. In an interview given exclusively to a select few reporters, Mr. Potter, known for being one of the most powerful wizards alive, gives reasons for his choice – an odd one, given his previous claims of pursuing the career._

"_I'm tired," he told _the Daily Prophet_. "All of my life, I've been living with the pressure of succeeding or being responsible for the deaths of billions. I'm tired of that. I don't want to fight anyone anymore." _

_When asked about what he was thinking of doing, he only said one word: "Healer." It is widely known that becoming a healer requires at least three trying years in specialized schools, so it was asked when he was planning on becoming one. "I already am one," he replied, "I attended the appropriate school two years after I left Hogwarts. I've worked in a hospital in London for the past year."_

_He also revealed that he did not talk to the media at the time in order not to disrupt his education, which is why no one has known of his intentions until now. It should also be noted that while he specified he worked in London, no one is certain which hospital he is working in. Several have speculated that [turn to Page 7]_

Draco Malfoy didn't turn the paper to Page 7 as requested. Instead, he looked at the thoughtfully-provided picture of Harry Potter, sitting behind a table with his hands folded in front of him and the scar hidden behind dark bangs, and wondered why the person who had been hideously hopeful, good and strong in years past looked so very defeated when he met Draco's gaze.

He turned to Page 7 when the Potter in the picture didn't look away from him after a few seconds, feeling disconcerted, and one of the lines caught his eye.

"_When they offer an Auror job – which they will, there's no question – I will refuse. No one will change my mind."_

It seemed even after all of these years, Potter still retained some of his old naivety. Draco couldn't restrain a snort at the other young man's thinking, for if he really wanted to help people, he should try to catch the ones causing the problems and injuries in the first place. He then reflected, slightly belatedly, that that was precisely what everyone _wanted _him to do, rather than what Potter himself wished.

The paper was abandoned on the table when he gathered the remainder of his meal and swept away from the atrium, intent on returning to his work that he had left half-finished. A foolish decision on his part, really – in his line of work, leaving something undone could end in an untimely explosion – and he quickened his stride, secured a position on a lift down, found his door and arrived at his office.

Fortunately, he'd left the liquid bubbling gently at a simmer, a state he knew was one where it was for the most part stable. His next hypothesis to test required to have it boil, though if he was being completely honest, why he wanted it to boil had yet to find reason in his mind. Nevertheless, he fanned the fire with his hand as he extracted his wand from his sleeve, whispering a little spell that caused the flames to grow slightly larger.

He watched in eager trepidation as the pinkish liquid began to froth and bubble more furiously, common sense trumped by overwhelming curiosity. Would it become a solid, or would it behave as water behaved and simply evaporate? If it did, would the fumes be scentless or heady like mead, and would they cause light-headedness or nausea? If it did not, how should he dispose of it, should the experiment be a failure? More importantly, if anything he produced might have some sort of use, how would he gain approval to test it on a subject – ?

A small part of his mind was unsurprised when the mixture instead blew up, sending shattered glass three-hundred and sixty degrees around. He managed to cast Protego in time in order to avoid the bulk of the shards – he was ashamed to admit this sort of occurrence wasn't exactly uncommon – and he winced when the pink substance, hissing with heat, splattered against his shield and slowly dropped to the floor. He watched with morbid fascination as the stuff liquidated part of the tiles at his feet before disappearing, leaving miniature black craters all over the floor of his workplace.

He wasn't thrilled to clean up after himself, but it wasn't as if anyone else would do it for him. He pointed his wand at the first crater, murmured a few words of a spell of his own creation, and wagged the tip around in a bored effort to mop up the blackness. This was probably why no one ever dared approach him, not even other Unspeakables, he thought to himself, as he continued to waggle his wand in the air, looking for the enchanted mop he kept handy. His methods were questionable at best.

Which was to say, while he was very, very good at his job and extremely proficient when it came to analyses of unknown mixtures, he often went through destructive and dangerous processes in order to figure out just what exactly was in them and what exactly they did. Everyone wanted to know how he went about his work, but at the same time, everyone was afraid when he left the Ministry for home, covered in soot or sporting a shredded work robe or with blood drying on the cheek of his thin, angular face and bits or pieces of stuff worked into his clothes and hair.

Still, this was the third time in a week he'd successfully blown something up. Actually, not just something; this was the third time in a week he'd successfully blown up the same pinkish liquid, in three different ways. _Perhaps I should work on a new project and file this one for later? _He shook his head at the thought, absently flicking his wand more vigorously as the black spots began to fade, _no_,_ no_, he couldn't let this one go unfinished. He was far too curious what else would trigger the pink mixture, for it was showing properties and oddities he had never seen anywhere else.

He exited his office only after realizing it would take longer than ten minutes to get everything clean, navigating his way back to the atrium and to the lift leading back up to London. He ignored the looks other wizards and witches gave him with the ease of long practice, even if they were slightly more pointed for he was leaving hours before he normally departed; however, in his opinion, given everything that occurred in the time that had passed, he figured it couldn't hurt to take a day off.

* * *

He was out grocery shopping, of all things, when he ran into an old schoolmate. Unsurprisingly, said schoolmate had a pretty little lady draped over his arm – Draco traced her curves with his eyes from a distance and remarked to himself about her long, smooth black hair, but, as always, found himself uninterested. At this point he didn't bother musing about it anymore; he'd come to terms with most likely being single his entire life.

Blaise, it seemed, had the opposite idea in mind, at least in the amicable sense. "Malfoy!" he called loudly from the produce aisle, and Draco twitched, ducking his head as other patrons looked over and hastily sidestepping to hide behind the cart with the watermelons. It was a weak venture and doomed to failure, and indeed, within a few seconds he found himself face-to-face with the other Slytherin, whose voice lowered to its normal level as he asked, "How've you been?"

"Zabini," he said, tucking his shoulders down in an effort to huddle in on himself and make him invisible, "If you have any respect for me, would you _please_ keep it down next time."

"Oh, yeah, sure. Apologies." Blaise gave Draco a small smile, dismissing the woman on his arm with a flap of her hand. She departed, giggling, returning to the shopping cart down the way, and Blaise only spoke once she turned the corner and was out of sight. "I haven't seen you in ages, Draco. Where've you been?"

"Doing secret stuff," Draco replied lightly, keeping his tone neutral even as he felt nauseous in his stomach. "Very secretive business. Classified. Can't talk about it, you see – it's top secret."

"Don't be a smartass," Blaise said just as lightly, but with an irritated bite in his words that promised death. Draco clapped his mouth shut to stop his mouth from jabbering on. "Draco, you haven't spoken to any of us in years."

"Only two." Blaise straightened slightly, a warning look in his eyes. Draco considered the other man to be one of his better friends, but at the same time, Blaise was taller and more built than he was, perfectly capable in taking him on in a fight. Not that they would fight, considering they were in a seedy old grocery store, and it wasn't as if they could start dueling, either, but the thought was there. "Sorry, that was stupid. I… " He flailed about a bit mentally, then finished, one side of his mouth curling down at the flimsiness of his words, "Haven't gotten around to it."

"That's the worst excuse I've heard from you, and you've come up with some pretty miserable ones." Draco winced, silently agreeing with the observation, and Blaise continued on with a curt nod. "You could have at least replied to one of our owls. I only found out you lived around here because someone at the Ministry mentioned that 'Malfoy's exploded something, again'."

"And thank god it took you that long," Draco muttered with a sigh, and before Blaise can ask about the side comment he said more loudly, "What were you doing at the Ministry?"

"I can't tell you that," Blaise shot back, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, and Draco grumbled. It was obvious the other wouldn't tell him the answer until Draco himself told Blaise what had been going on in his life; a fair trade, he supposed, but not one he could take advantage of without serious repercussions. "The better question is, why didn't I see you there?"

He considered all the responses he could give and decided to go with the truth. "I can't tell you," Draco said, tone firm, gut twisting in knots.

Blaise frowned at him, disapproving but not insulting. "You can't or you won't?"

"I'm an Unspeakable, Blaise," Draco explained, noting that the woman Blaise had brought with him was pushing the cart towards them, a smile on her lips. _Best wrap this up_. "I'm not allowed to. I'm sorry. The things I do aren't supposed to be – "

"It's all right." The former Slytherin raised both hands in a pacifying surrender gesture, and Draco fell silent. "I get it. It's just, you know."

"What?" Draco asked, more curious than annoyed when Blaise did not continue his thought. The woman was nearing the aisle, still some distance away, but she would no doubt interrupt this so very insightful conversation soon enough. He was almost eager for that moment, right up until Blaise spoke again.

"We were worried about you."

Something cold settled in his stomach, and it chilled him to the bone. It took several times before Draco could form the words. When he did, his tone was cutting, and guilt only made his words colder. "That's adorable, but unnecessary. I don't need anyone's help."

"But you're just isolating yourself. You haven't made a blip on the radar for years – everyone expects you to make a fuss about how your father's a wanted man and that he's missing. Even the newspapers are writing about your complete lack of presence. Why aren't you doing anything?"

Draco did not reply.

"And no one knows where you live, or what you do – it's as if you've just disappeared. And you've always been a bit of an attention sort of guy, but you haven't ever tried to let your voice be heard, on newspapers or whatever. Why? What exactly have you been up to for all these years?"

"If you were me, you'd understand why I wanted the public to forget who I was," Draco responded darkly, holding onto his plastic basket full of goods in a white-knuckled grip.

"Blaise, darling!" the woman called, and Draco quietly thanked any sacred deity that was listening for her intervention as his friend turned to speak to her.

"Just a moment!" Blaise pivoted on one foot to look at Draco. "At least respond to the owls we send, would you?"

Draco said nothing, and Blaise sighed as he turned and walked to his lady friend. The blond watched silently as they check out, and Blaise cast him one last glance before they exited the store; only then did he return to his perusing of the broccoli heads, and he did so with a heavy heart and a distracted mind.

* * *

"A thousand pardons, but you'll have to come with me."

A few days after the Unintentional Grocery Store Meeting, Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated sigh through gritted teeth. He took a few deep breaths in this position before his hand fell to his side; he had the feeling that he wouldn't like what this young man wanted with him.

"I can't at the moment," he said calmly, after a few moments. He couldn't see the eyes of the person opposite him, hidden under a baseball cap and hoodie combination, which he couldn't help but notice was rather ill-fitting attire considering the man's tall, lanky form. "If you come back tomorrow, I should be available."

"A woman's dead in what is an apparent murder, and the Minister suggested you could help."

Draco felt a flash of alarm sear through his mind not at the former statement but rather the latter. What was the point of being called an Unspeakable if someone else went on to describe the minute aspects of his work? Even if it _was_ the Minister, and even if it wasn't the first time this had happened. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a bell was ringing – this young man's voice was intensely familiar, but how? He couldn't know unless he got a clear look at the face.

Then he inwardly laughed wryly at his own priorities. Clearly, a woman dead was more important than his personal security… at least in theory. He certainly didn't feel that way.

"I don't see how I can be of any help," he said at last, feeling his left hand instinctively shift to where his wand was tucked into the pocket of his jeans. The young man across him tracked the movement and tensed slightly, and Draco immediately forced his hand to relax. He couldn't afford to make a scene, not when he'd worked so hard to remain hidden. "It is most likely in your better interests to seek another with a different… skill set."

There is a pregnant pause before the young man spoke again. When he did, his tone was puzzled and, if Draco wasn't mistaken, a little surprised. "Why do you say that?"

"If I could speak of my job, I might explain it. As that is not an opportunity I can take, I will simply have to ask you to return later." He moved back, put his hand on the knob, and he wasn't blind to the flicker of quiet shock on the young man's face. "Good day." The man stuck his shoe between the door and its frame as he attempted to close it, and Draco wordlessly threatened to slam it on his foot, opening the door slightly wider and tapping it against his sole.

But then he said in a loud whisper, "Harry Potter himself will be examining the body." Draco paused, eyebrow raised, door still open because of the man's shoe, and the stranger said with a tone of both reverence and defensiveness, "It's true."

There was a long minute where Draco struggled with himself, common sense wrestling with his curiosity – not a rare fight, actually quite a frequent one that his innate inquisitiveness consistently won. He then pulled the door open a little wider and was consequently disgusted with himself when he asked cautiously, "He is a coroner? Last I heard he was simply a Healer."

He was met with a long silence. Then: "I hope you understand that if you refuse – which you still can – you're passing up a chance to meet him in the flesh."

Draco stared at him for a long time. The man stared back, though at his chin rather than his eyes. Something clicked in his mind, after a few seconds, a little _oh,_ and now he understood why his voice was so familiar.

"Weasley, I figure," he said at last, despairing about both the redhead and himself as he stepped out of his flat and closed the door behind him. Sadly enough, he had been caught hook and sinker by that last statement. "I can't find it in me to even pretend I'm surprised at this point."

A brilliant flash of teeth flared in a grim smile, and at last his gaze was met and held with the blue eyes of Potter's best friend, slightly obscured by tufts of red hair. "I'm just surprised that it took you so long, Malfoy," he said, and his tone, previously neutral, had changed, with the words frosting at the edges. "Believe me, I wasn't thrilled to know you were the one to go to when I heard about it."

"That makes two of us," Draco murmured, though for his ears alone, and he obediently followed when Weasley began to walk. Where they were going, he did not know; he never bothered exploring London aside from how to find his way to the Ministry, and he didn't bother checking the muggle news this morning for crime. What wizard did, in all honesty? "Though I'll be truthful, I don't see why you could not have sent someone else in your place."

"Please. None of them would actually succeed in convincing _you_." Weasley turned his head to cast a quick glance at him, and Draco felt his mind recoil at the sheer scorn on the redhead's face, though he did not react physically. "Because no one knows you like we do."

He felt one eyebrow rise to his forehead again and began, careful, "We being – "

"Me, Harry, and Hermione, yes," Weasley said shortly, and Draco sensed that this would be best time to shut up, which he did without further ado.

He then trailed behind in silence, marking each right or left turn in his mind and making vague attempts to remember the names of the streets they pass. It would be good to learn where Potter was working, he supposed; Rita Skeeter would have a field day with it if he were to leak the location anonymously. Then again, that would likely incur the wrath of Potter's friends, and so he decided that perhaps he should merely best remember how to get there and then keep it to himself.

Weasley eventually headed down an alley and disappeared around the edge of the building on the right; when Draco turned the corner, a crime scene ballooned into view, marked off with yellow caution tape and complete with the usual spectators and the tired police officers murmuring, "Nothing to see here, carry on, nothing to see." He felt faintly surprised that there were muggle cops intervening, and was glad he refrained on carrying a work robe per usual; he already stuck out like a sore thumb with his platinum blond hair and gray eyes, and there was no reason to be even more conspicuous.

His eyes were drawn to the epicenter of the scene, where a strange liquid would no doubt be located (why else would his expertise be recommended?), and despite himself a small smile worked its way onto his face. He did so love a new project, especially in the midst of another he was struggling to finish. "What are we looking at?" he asked Weasley, forgetting in the moment that he should not let any emotion, most especially eagerness, filter into his voice. He realized his mistake too late when the redhead glanced over, both eyebrows raised over Draco's tone, though he didn't remark upon it.

"Hit by a driver drinking far too early in the morning, as far as the muggles know," Weasley replied guardedly after a few beats had passed. "The body's already been taken in to Harry, but Hermione figured you'd want to see the crime scene first."

"And she'd be right," Draco murmured, silently awarding the muggleborn kudos in his mind. He completely disregarded the tape to duck under it, despite such behavior being against all of the stealth code he'd adopted over the past few years, and the protests of the police and others who didn't really matter fall on deaf ears. "Private investigator," he told them convincingly, flipping his I.D. out of his pocket. He used it on the rare occasion that magical elements were involved in muggle crime – indeed, this wasn't the first time the Minister had sporadically assigned him to investigations – and now seemed as opportune a moment as any. (The enchantment on the badge helped some, he had to admit.)

As he had hoped, they left him alone, though not without suspicion, as he knelt on the ground to examine the exact point of impact. Weasley didn't join him, and Draco was grateful for it.

Much of the stain coating the rough street was dark with the telltale brown-red of dried and drying blood. However, there were splatters here and there of what had probably been a sickly, glowing green; Draco recognized the mixture on the spot, having dealt with it several times beforehand, though he had given it no official name nor published any official reports – it was filed away as 'glowy green stuff' in his mind and notes. He had determined that the substance, strangely viscous yet fluidly malleable, coated the lungs and trachea, became much like glue when in contact with heat, and ultimately resulted in asphyxia when consumed.

He frowned as he poked and nudged the remaining stuff he could see into a small vial made just for an occasion such as this, his wand hidden in the palm of his hand, and then he gracefully rose to his feet and backtracked to where Weasley stood impatiently.

"A rather unfortunate way to die, really," he told the redhead once he was close enough, ducking under the tape, remaining purposefully vague while pocketing the vial once again with a smooth slip of his fingers. "Painful, and also clearly murder."

Weasley raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "And how could you know that?"

He couldn't help the cold smile, baring his teeth at the former Gryffindor besides him. "I have my ways, mister Weasley, not that I could ever speak of them. As I have said already, it comes with the job description."

"Ah, yes, of course. Forgive me for being an ass and asking a question you'll be forced to answer in, oh, fifteen minutes." He was given a mock bow for his trouble, to which Draco said nothing. "Let's go."

Draco nodded, his silence irritating enough given the bite in his words earlier, and Weasley set his jaw, grinding down on words that would be no doubt insulting. When the redhead broke into a light jog, a humorous image given his baggy sweatshirt, Draco remained close behind, watching streets and pedestrians walk by with the airy indifference of one thinking of something else.

It hardly surprised him that Harry Potter had chosen a smaller hospital rather than working at the one a few kilometers away; while that one was better known and had high approval rates, they would instantly use Potter's fame to their advantage. Then Draco blinked, wondering just when he had bothered looking at a map and memorizing the location of that particular hospital. Probably when he had first started his job, when he had thought it would be in his better interests to have at least an inkling of how to get there. _Ha_. Like that would have helped him any, especially if they had made him sign in.

They entered through the glass doors, silver letters stating _Institute of Healthy Bodies and Minds_ or something along those lines, and were met with a wrinkled, stern-faced receptionist whose expression softened slightly at the sight of Weasley, only to become pinched when his eyes fell upon him.

"Good afternoon," Draco said politely, bobbing his head, and the secretary's demeanor remained guarded, as if waiting for him to go on and, what, insult his ridiculously huge emerald earrings. He resisted that particular urge with the ease of long practice and kept his mouth shut, most likely, he thought to himself, not for the last time.

"He's in the basement," the receptionist said after a few moments of tense silence, and Weasley nodded before beckoning Draco to follow him with a jerk of his head, and when he walked, the other followed, noting the cleanliness and quietness in the wards.

Draco mused briefly on each patient he can see from the window of their doors; most were sleeping and were children or young men and women. He only saw one grown woman and two grown men before Weasley turned to a door and tromped down a flight of stairs. His hood fell as he did so, and he removed the baseball cap from his head as he went, shaking his head slightly as his curls revealed themselves once again. Draco watched without comment, and he was hardly surprised when the other man ran a freckled hand through the red locks.

Weasley stopped with his hand on the knob of one of the doors, one of many in a long hallway, and turned to Draco with what he would loosely describe as a poor imitation of the receptionist's initial expression. "Please don't piss anyone off," he told him, and Draco gave a simple nod; with that, the door opened, and they entered the room, simple and dark and spelling sharply of disinfectant.

A familiar shock of black hair was the first thing Draco saw; the next was a back, belonging to the owner of the aforementioned hair, and even though his face wasn't visible the Slytherin could practically sense the scar on the man's forehead. And speaking of bodies – his eyes lit upon the pale figure lying motionlessly on the flat, metal table, and even from his current distance he immediately scanned the upper torso, of what he could see. _Swelling of the throat_, he thought, and with that his hypothesis was almost confirmed. The vial weighed heavy in his pocket.

Potter turned, but it was only when Weasley greeted him with, "I got the git to come." Meanwhile Draco bothered looking up only for a second; in the next, he had swept up to the body and bent over the face, carefully skimming his fingers over the larynx and pressing down lightly on the chest. More swelling, and a strange malleability even with skin that had stiffened with rigor mortis, so yes, the glowy green stuff was definitely responsible for this woman's death.

"I should really come up with a better name for that," he murmured as he straightened slightly to extract his wand from the folds of his coat, the other hand removing the vial of the chemical from his pocket. It was time to go about casting a spell to get the green liquid out of the woman's body, and the tip of his wand hovered over the victim's open mouth as he mentally rehearsed the proper procedure in his mind.

"Don't."

Potter's voice cut sharply into his thoughts, and he froze in place, remembering where he was and who exactly he was with in a snap. Still, he took his time to stand back up to his full height – which was unfortunately several increments shorter than Potter's – and turned to face the Chosen One, the one who had saved them all, the Boy Who Lived, Voldemort's bane of existence, so on and so forth.

"Afternoon, Potter," he said smoothly, meeting vibrantly green eyes with his gray ones, and uttered nothing more. There was no reason to explain what he knew until they asked, after all; even better, he should leave them floundering. Now that would be quite a funny thing to watch, after all of these days, months, perhaps even few years of tedium.

Then he blinked. He hadn't had thoughts like this in years.

"Malfoy," Potter greeted, his tone indifferent but tight. Draco disregarded the earlier thought and felt the beginnings of a smirk play upon his face; perhaps not all had been forgiven by Potter after all, all the more amusing if he chose to play his cards correctly. Which, given how stealthy he had been in order to remain low, he always did. "So you made it."

"I would say it is my pleasure, but I'm quite certain it's the opposite for all parties involved, myself included." Draco tapped the woman's face with his wand with a whisper, disregarding Potter's order to stop from moments earlier, and drew his wand away from the body, noting with satisfaction that the green substance followed from her throat without trouble. His voice lowered as he concentrated. "Still, now that I am here, I'll lend you my expertise."

"How generous of you to wait for permission," Potter retorted, sarcasm making his tone drip with scorn. Draco did not respond, as he unstopped the vial and guided the rest of the green into the glass container, and somehow he knew that his silence alone was more irritating than anything else he could have said.

"Look, Malfoy, all we want from you is if you can tell us what that – stuff you just took even is," Weasley said after a tense moment, and Draco barely acknowledged him, just a slight turn of his head in his general direction. He still remained attentively quiet, so the redhead continued cautiously, "We were told, vaguely, that you'd be the best for this sort of thing."

Draco shook his head slightly, because he was pretty sure ten thousand rules had been broken for even hinting what he did exactly for work. "The Minister really shouldn't have done so, but in any case, yes. I do know what this is." He lifted the vial into the light of the fluorescent lightbulbs in the ceiling, and it struck the liquid within with a sickly green color.

He waited patiently until someone asked him what it was and what it did, as he made a show of examining the stuff in the glass container; he'd determined, after a few years of studying his own behavior, that it was the Slytherin in him that enjoyed watching people squirm. Weasley lasted barely five seconds before speaking. "Just tell us what it is, Malfoy."

"Certainly." He was proud of himself when he did not smile as both Potter and Weasley rolled their eyes. "It's a compound that can be created only with a particular kind of charm, thus it is not a natural material in itself." He fingered the now-full vial in his hands. He was certain more of the stuff remained in the woman's system, though he didn't need it, and, while it was in her body, it remained harmless. "It is injected through needles, by swallowing, or through other openings in the skin. I've seen it a number of times preceding today, and I have reasonable suspicion to believe that dark wizards have been employing its use as a weapon."

If they were surprised by his knowledge, they did not show it on their faces. "So you're saying that someone made this, then forcibly gave it to the woman," Potter clarified.

"It's possible, though improbable." Draco ignored Weasley when he gives an incredulous sound from the back of his throat, and raised a hand before the redhead can protest further, saying soothingly, "I am simply saying no one would eat this through their own free will, given its color."

Weasley muttered something under his breath, and it was only a glare from Potter that read _just a bit longer and then we can kick him out_ that shut him up. Draco meanwhile pointed to the woman's mouth, to her teeth and tongue. "You can tell by the slight discoloration in her enamel, or by the strange inflation of her tongue, that she consumed it through her mouth, though whether it was without consent or without knowledge if beyond me." He shrugged, unconcerned. "Either way, it is highly suspicious. I would be careful should anyone pursue this case as well."

Weasley then wanted to know, "Why?" Wisely so, as perhaps he was the one who would be investigating.

"I figure that should be fairly self-evident, but in essence, it is quite dangerous." Draco gestured towards the still figure lying quietly on the table. "Fatal, even, as you see here.'

"What does it do?" Potter asked.

Draco was surprised to hear he sounded genuinely curious. He watched cautiously for a moment, but all the Chosen One did was gaze down at the body; he took it as his cue to speak freely. "It causes asphyxia," he replied, and at Weasley's look he explained, "The chemical coats the lungs and throat and acts as glue, effectively causing the victim to suffocate. As I told you earlier, mister Weasley, it is a rather painful way to die."

There was silence while the pair exchange glances, contemplating the information he'd just given them. He stood still, wondering with a sense of dread if they doubted his words. If they did, it would be very possible for them to raise a fuss, which would get attention if Potter chose to complain vocally, and then that would blow his cover – one he'd been maintaining for so long. It would be such a waste to relocate after all of this time, though it wasn't entirely impossible, as there _had_ been that one place down the way.

Perhaps he should have thought this through a bit more thoroughly. If people heard…

"Thank you, Malfoy," Potter said instead, at last, and Draco knew a dismissal when he heard one.

"Should your ignorant minds ever need some insight, do feel free to contact me." Hm, that 'ignorant' had slipped out without a thought; he had to take better care of his words next time around, if there was one. In any case, he tipped an imaginary hat and turned, pushing past Weasley while slipping the vial in his fingers into his pocket once more. He paused at the door, looked behind him, and murmured, "Good day."

He ledt the room and the hospital with a heavy, cold feeling in his stomach. If the media caught wind that Lucius Malfoy's son was currently stationed in London, he would never hear the end of it. That, and the regular death threats and hate mail would stuff his mailbox once more.

* * *

"He seemed subdued."

Ron's observation was, naturally, astute. Harry prodded the woman's chest and throat and felt what Malfoy had informed them would be there: an unnatural swelling. He was nearly certain that upon autopsy, the former Slytherin would be proven correct.

"He was." Harry paused to look over at his friend, who was watching the still woman with a quiet absence in his eyes.

"He called me _mister_."

Harry had found that to be one of the more surprising things, himself; Ron apparently found it unbelievable. "He's changed."

Ron snorted and muttered, "All the better for us, then." The redhead ignored Harry's disapproving glance by refusing to meet his gaze for longer than a brief second. "Don't give me that look. I'm just saying, if his expertise is solid, it will be a lot easier now to rope him into helping us. Not that I want that, of course."

"It's authentic," Harry said, stepping back and debating with himself on how to begin what he'd been trained to do. "His observation, that is. I'm fairly sure he's correct in most regards."

"I trust your judgment," Ron said, and that was the end of it – no other complaints, no grumbled remarks, just a simple statement of belief as his best friend turned to the door. "Do what you have to, Harry."

It closed softly behind the redhead as Harry murmured, "I wish it were that easy."

* * *

Another few days later, during which the pink liquid continued to baffle him and he had ignored a grand total of five different owls sent by two different people, Weasley showed up at his door again.

"We think it's the same stuff as last time," he said, and Draco nodded and came along willingly without speaking a single word of assent.

This time Potter was not present when he was shown the body, and he felt a little jolt of – what, disappointment? Fear? – at his absence. Still, when he pressed lightly on the middle-aged man's dark skin, feeling the beginnings of rigor mortis taking place, he identified the presence of the glowy green stuff in the man's chest with ease. "You are correct," he said, and when he was dismissed he realizes those were the only three words he had spoken the entire time he'd been with the other man.

More days passed, more experiments with the pink stuff failed, more owls were ignored, and when at last Sunday arrived he simply got up to change, spread some marmalade on a piece of toast, and then sat on the couch and flicked on the television. Muggle news wove into his ears like a love song sung by a tone-deaf Frenchman, and he leaned back with a sigh as he struggled to summon the will to be productive.

He remained unmoving right up until someone knocked on his door, and then he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled to the entrance of his flat, peeking through the peephole for a few moments before resigning himself to his fate and opening the door slightly. He blinked stupidly a few times, and it took him all of five embarrassing seconds to realize it wasn't Weasley waiting there this time around.

"Morning, Malfoy," Harry Potter said, and it took almost all of Draco's willpower not to slam the door on the man's face.

He instead opened the door a little wider and said wearily and warily, "Whatever you need, spit it out so I can get it done and return to reveling in the peacefulness that is my flat." As an afterthought, he added, "If you wouldn't mind."

Potter gave him a strange look, most likely due to the half-rude, half-polite way Draco had phrased the request, and then he seems to inwardly shrug as he said, "Ron found something you might want to look at."

"I hope you realize this is the one day I do not have to work," Draco grumbled as he stepped out of his house and closed the door behind him. He turned and worked the key in into its hole, locking the door before stepping down the stoop and trailing after the former Gryffindor walking along the pavement.

"Since when do you work a six-day week?" Potter asked, sounding amused. "Back in school, you were always saying your dad could – "

"Let's not bring that up, Potter, unless you want to go through the trouble to find another person with my level of skills." Draco's voice was cold and flat. "Though if that is the case, yes, it would be simply delightful analyze my young self's idiotic pastimes in great detail."

"I wasn't implying – "

"Clearly. Keep walking, Potter, I'm sure neither of us have all day."

It seemed Potter hadn't even realized he'd stopped and turned to Draco, and he quickly spun himself around and hurried his steps to the destination. Draco followed silently, feeling a sliver of guilt for his sharp words but, for the most part, assured that what he had said was fully justified given the situation.

"So." Silence. Draco could hardly believe Potter was trying to make small talk, especially considering who he himself was. "How's, er. How's life going for you?"

"Peachy," he replied, glaring at a crack in the sidewalk.

"Which means?"

"Must you ask?" Yes, he must, and Draco gave in and responded, "In essence, there are morons everywhere I look, and, unfortunately for my diminishing brain cells, there is no escape."

A short laugh echoed his statement. "Typical. You haven't changed at all."

"I resent that. I for one like to believe that I have – how would you say it – mellowed out."

"That's what Ron tells me."

"In much more colorful terms, I imagine."

"Something like that, yes. Mostly he's surprised."

"What, that a Slytherin like myself can realize when he's lost the battle he never should have tried to win?"

"If you put it that way, yeah, kind of."

"Astonishing, that, isn't it."

"He's what one might call a biased source."

"You're telling me. He would kiss your feet if you asked it."

"That's a bit of a stretch, Malfoy."

"Oh, please, Potter. Tell me he wasn't revering you when you first met, I dare you."

"Well, all right, I'll admit that much. But times have changed."

"Yes, for instance, your best friend runs around getting your resident Slytherin to help you out. Certainly a marvelous decision on his part."

"It wasn't his fault. I told him to."

"Case in point, Potter."

"Yes, but the Minister suggested it."

"I am still questioning that. As an Unspeakable, my work is in theory confidential, though I am beginning to see that policy is obsolete when applied to me."

"Welcome to the real world, Malfoy."

"I've lived in it for years."

"Doesn't seem like it."

"At least you don't have to hide in plain sight, Potter. Be happy with what you have." Why had he said that? It had just come out on its own accord; this was why he always had to remain in control of his tongue.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The mood sobered as Draco muttered, "Nothing," in a voice that booked no argument. Potter fell silent, detecting the change in atmosphere, and after a few seconds of silent walking Draco immediately recognized the hospital as it came into view. He has been here so often in these past few weeks, he thought to himself, that he could probably find his way now there without trouble.

"So you said you're an Unspeakable," and it seemed Potter still wanted to talk. Draco ignored the fact he had been conversing quite calmly with him earlier. "That seems kind of the opposite of what I thought you might be doing."

"A lot of what you think is turning out to be wrong, Potter."

"That's usually the case when you're a scientist."

_That's true, at least_. Draco supposed he and Potter had something in common. "A fault on your part. You are assuming items true without evidence to prove them as such."

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Yes, but you do them to a degree where it can be labeled 'stupid'."

"You've barely talked to me for more than five minutes, Malfoy. What would you know?"

"Just because I don't work with people doesn't mean I cannot read them."

"Clearly."

Draco rolled his eyes as they went through the glass doors of the hospital. "_Clearly_ my intelligence is wasted on your people."

"_Clearly_," Potter countered, "You're not even giving anyone a chance to begin to appreciate it."

The truth of these words shut him up nigh instantaneously, and he saw Potter silently gloat with the verbal victory as he talked to the secretary at the front desk. He fumed for the whole length of the hallway, refusing to look at anything but the floor all the way down to the workspace, and only looked up when they entered Potter's workplace and he could see the body.

There was a difference this time, in that now the head was horribly disfigured, one half of the facial skin dead and rotting, gleaming white skull visible, while the other side showed a wide eye, parted lips and a half head of hair. The remains reminded him of something Draco had seen before, but he said nothing as he drew closer and examined it more carefully. He didn't miss the way Potter flinched when Draco poked the edge of charred skin with his bare finger, noting how it burned at the contact, and then took a small sniff before pulling back.

"Bubotuber," he said. It wasn't hard to find the plant and make a potion from it, if one had access to muggle products and understood magic to the point of being not quite an imbecile. In extremely small doses and when properly diluted, the pus from a boil on the bubotuber plant was capable of removing boils, though the only way to get it besides illegal means was to have it prescribed by a Healer. "Apparently someone decided throwing a cauldron's worth of the plant's pus on this man's face would be the most amusing pastime of the day – night, actually. This is perhaps a day and a half old, if I am not mistaken."

"And if you are?"

"Then you have nothing to go on and you will never bother me again. So please, do find me wrong, I will most certainly be happy to cease coming."

"I figured as much." Draco wondered if he should feel slightly disappointed that Potter didn't rise to the jab as the former Gryffindor went to the other side of the smooth, metal table, gingerly touching a few spaces between the boiled and healthy flesh. "Bubotuber, then. How fast does it react to human skin?"

"Upon contact, the skin will rise in large, painful boils before proceeding to high temperatures, where it will begin to essentially boil itself off the bone and muscle entirely – that's the best way to explain it, really. Too much of a dose will burn through muscle. An even larger dose, you might get to the bone."

"Could you go beyond the bone?"

"Theoretically, yes, though at this point I think you are merely satisfying your own morbid curiosity. In any case, you could label it as the cause of this man's death."

"I thought I felt the presence of the green glowing material in his chest."

"You – " Right, Draco, people learn from watching and Potter wasn't a complete idiot, even if he was awfully close to being so. "Well, fine, perhaps the bubotuber was applied after asphyxia. Where exactly did you find this man?"

"Ron had him brought in this morning, and from what I understand, he was found in an abandoned muggle factory, hidden by spells of concealment." An uneasy expression darkened Potter's face. "I personally think it was a murder, but Hermione is the one who figures that type of thing out while Ron and I take care of this."

Draco raised an eyebrow, and then he pieced it together a moment too late. "The three of you run some form of investigation business?"

"Essentially," Potter replied, and Draco mentally slapped his own forehead. That explained a great many things, such as why Potter didn't feel the need to help others as an Auror – he helped in a different way as a private investigator's coroner instead. "We have help from other people to get us some influence in the muggle world, but we've made quite a name for ourselves in the wizarding community."

Potter was giving him a strange look, and Draco realized that he probably should have known what the other was up to, given he was the Boy Who Lived and everyone continued to keep tabs on him, even today. He coughed into his fist to disguise his embarrassment, and then he said in a semi-haughty manner, already turning for the door, "Yes, well, that is – good for you, I suppose. Now can I go or do you have any other questions you want to bother me with?"

"If you put it that way, then yeah, actually. How do you know so much about bubotuber?"

He stilled in midstride when Potter asked the question, pivoting on his feet to face him again with a blank expression. "My job is strictly confidential. What I do is under no circumstance to be shared, regardless of the fact you are Harry Potter himself – "

"The Minister mentioned you're a professional chemist in the eyes of the normal world," Potter plowed on, and Draco sent him an affronted look that was easily ignored as the other continued, "Why are you, of all people, trying to get a muggle science to be equated with magic?"

"Potter," he said, and then he schooled his face into one of stone, "Remember when you said I wasn't giving people the chance to even consider my intelligence?"

"Er, yes?"

"I'm afraid most people, yourself included, do not even try to." The words were delivered without venom, without a trace of emotion, and from personal experience the Slytherin knew that was the best way to indicate to someone they had asked one too many questions.

Naturally Potter ruined it by saying, "What?"

"Oh my god." That's it, Draco thought. I have officially given up. Potter is still as stupid as he always was. "I honestly cannot tell if you are trying to annoy me or if you're actually sincere."

"Nah, I was just trying to get a rise out of you." Potter gabe him an approving glance, as if he'd passed some sort of test. "And you can go now. But one thing before you leave."

"Make it quick."

"Do you think it would be possible for you to perhaps clear your schedule? We'll probably be needing you more after this."

Draco paused by the door, turning the proposition this way and that in his mind. "Perhaps you should talk to the Minister," he said at last, forgetting he was supposed to adamantly disagree in favor of focusing on this latest problem. "I do not imagine that will be difficult, but…" He trailed off as he thought of the research time lost, and then spoke up once more, "Why would you want me, Potter? I imagine I would be your last choice on any list that included the names of any group of people."

"You're the best qualified," he said with a shrug. "I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot of this sort of thing." Here he gestured to the charred face, the puffiness of the bare, lifeless chest, and looks him square in the eye. Draco's eyebrows slowly rose into his hairline, as he considered the newfound gravity to the situation.

After a moment he asked, stating it as a fact, "You're suggesting serial murder."

"I'll deny it if you bring it up, but yes, in my professional opinions, these people are all dying in basically the same way."

"Serial murder. As in, a serial murderer."

"Yes. I thought that'd be obvious."

"You are planning on catching a serial murderer."

"I didn't say that."

"It was implicit."

"I stand by the fact that I didn't say it."

"How are you going to even begin to catch a serial murderer?"

"That's where you come in."

He was staring at him with an intensity Draco remembered seeing on his face all those years back, at the final duel with Voldemort. He got the sense that if he refused, pain in the form of an endlessly nagging Weasley would be in his future.

"I imagine our partnership will be far from savory," Draco tried cautiously, in a backhanded way of saying _this will not end well no matter how you look at it._ "I don't suppose Weasley or Granger will be too fond of my presence."

Potter told him, his tone insightful yet snippy, "Well, like you said, you've mellowed out. If you don't act like a complete jerk then I think we'll be good."

"I'm not – well, not all the time," he grumbled to himself.

"You so are," Potter said, snorting on a laugh, and then Draco exited and closed the door behind him, ignoring the burn of righteous anger (he knew it was embarrassment, but he didn't have to admit it to himself just yet) on his cheeks.

And then, as he left through the glass doors after a glaring contest with the front desk secretary, he realized that was the most he'd ever spoken in years. And, more importantly, to his internal humiliation, it was one of the few times where he hadn't gotten the last word.

* * *

**This was my NaNoWriMo project that was halfway completed at the end of November and, as it stands, has still yet to reach completion. Since it was written for the sole purpose of my sister's birthday, however, which is today, posting it periodically seems to be the ideal choice to gift it to her on time. **

**As she has requested, it is Harry/Draco, is nearing and will likely surpass 50,000 words, and will eventually include an egregious amount of dialogue. Happy birthday to you!**

******... though I'm still not entirely pleased with how this came out, even though I've had it on file for almost half a year.**

**(As you can probably guess, this is my first venture into the HP fandom - and after this is done, I don't plan on coming back. Too much stuff to remember and research, plus, as a book series, it never appealed to me as much as others.)  
**


	2. barium neon

**I have not, do not, and will never own Harry Potter or its characters.  
**

**Forgive any small mistakes and errors, as they are bound to happen. Onward.**

* * *

In his frustration he nearly smashed the contents of the flask against the tiles of his workspace, which would have been stupid if he'd gone through with it. Fortunately, he regained his common sense as his arm arched progressively higher in the air, and instead he brought his hand down and placed the flask back onto the countertop (and if he did it with more pressure than necessary, well, no one had to know).

The pink liquid's composition and practical usage continued to leave him with nothing but confusion, and it had already been a few days since the visit with Potter. At the moment his only goal was to determine what the purpose of it even was, besides to blacken surfaces and generally act as an explosive in many conditions. Anger made him sloppy, distraction left him uncertain, and he really just wanted to get answers, not more of the same thing every single time he did something _new_ and there wasn't anything left to _do now_ –

Ah, but wait. He hadn't tried to freeze it yet, had he? He wondered vaguely if it would result in yet another explosion as he muttered the proper incantation and watched the chilled air flow from the tip of his wand to the bottom of the flask. Maybe he would get lucky and nothing would happen. Even more miraculously, maybe he would get lucky and he'd find that when frozen, the pink stuff would show some sort of practical use.

But then, how could it possibly show any practical usage when it was frozen and it just sat there? God, he could be so moronic sometimes. Stupid, stupid, dumb, dumb. He grumbled to himself as the pink liquid slowly began to solidify, taking up more space inside the flask as it did so – a property unique to water, though he'd already determined dihydrogen oxide played a large role in its chemical makeup – and reflected that he probably should have placed it in a more reachable area as he waited.

There was a loud cracking sound. Belatedly Draco realized that the flask must have cracked some when he had slammed it onto the surface, and then with a mental sigh he cast Protego as the glass shattered, the pink liquid wobbling in its solid form a bit before thumping onto the surface. Bits of glass tinkled to the ground as he ceased the spell and he poked the semi-hard stuff with his wand, not quite brave enough to do so with his finger (the trick he'd done with Potter required that he tape his finger afterwards – even he knew better than to touch bubotuber essence without proper protection, but he'd gone and done it anyway. Stupid, stupid, dumb, dumb). Nothing happened.

He then poked it with his finger, and when the pink hissed as it came into contact with his it he pulled away immediately. He noted how some of it in liquid form was coating his flesh and was apparently being absorbed by his skin, and wondered vaguely if he would be poisoned as he wiped his hand against his tattered work robe and eyed the pink stuff anew.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_," and he floated it into one of his larger beakers, setting it on the bottom and going about to chill it even further, examining his finger while he did so. It felt rather tingly, but not painful, and there was no disfiguration or discoloration as of yet. Perhaps he should have tested it on a human subject earlier, though he would have preferred it not being himself.

A few more seconds passed and he felt his finger get very warm, and then the feeling became burning and painful. The pink stuff sat quietly in its frozen state in the beaker, and Draco gritted his teeth and resigned himself to continue experimenting for another hour or so. It was just one finger, after all, his index one to be sure, but it couldn't hold him back from doing his routine tests.

He finished the spell and pulled back to observe the solid pink form he had created. It was steaming slightly and already, a pool of slushy liquid was gathering at its base. He gently touched its surface with the tip of his wand and, upon making a dent, took a glass rod and cautiously poked it deep inside of the solid. It had the viscosity of snow, in that it broke into two sizeable chunks, and looked remotely like an ice pop he'd seen muggle children enjoy in the summer.

Then someone burst through his door and his glass rod slammed into one half of the pink stuff in his surprise. This resulted in an explosion that, with the ease of long practice, he protected himself from with a rapid Protego, and once it was over he slowly pivoted on one foot and glared at the person standing in the door.

"Sorry, I ignored the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door," Weasley said blandly, "Or lack thereof," and Draco let out a noise that could be equated of a screech being combined with a whimper.

"Ignoring the fact you are not supposed to even _be_ here," Draco managed to get out without a choking sound, though it was an awfully close call, "Are you aware of how you might've died had I been conducting a more dangerous experiment?" Weasley shrugged, unconcerned, which only served to aggravate Draco even more, and he snapped, "There is a reason people avoid me like the plague, you know!"

"Yeah, because you're a dick."

Draco snorted, _like I haven't heard that before_. "Believe what you'd like, mister Weasley, but my suggestion is to perhaps look into a mirror." With that he turned back to the now-blackened beaker to view the remaining pink stuff, still frozen and scattered, with something akin to murderous intent as he began to gather it up with carefully controlled flicks of his wand. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"Sure, take your time. We have all day. Someone just died after all. No big deal."

Draco muttered some very rude words under his breath as he gently floated the combined mass of frozen pink into its original glass storage flask and screwed the cork on as tightly as he could. This he placed on the countertop, and then he murmured "_Aquamenti_" onto the counter itself and let the water soak up the mess. It wouldn't truly be clean until he charmed it with a few other spells, but according to Weasley lounging over there, he didn't have the luxury to do so.

"Ready?" Weasley said impatiently at the door, and Draco straightened slowly with a grimace on his, making a grotesque imitation what he believed Weasley's face before he turned around, his expression blank. "Let's go, your highness."

"After you, I insist, since you were so kind as to interrupt me," he said haughtily, and Weasley gave him the finger before leaving through the door, not bothering to hold it open for him. Typical. Gryffindors were always so obvious in their anger. He ignored that thought in favor of saying mildly, "I am surprised you managed to find your way here."

"There are shortcuts," Weasley said curtly, and from his tone Draco got the sense he wouldn't say anything else about the topic, his hypothesis further solidified when the redhead added, "And that's not important right now."

"I'm sure. Of course, it's not that anyone cares that I was rudely torn away from my work in favor of running around to help you morons. What is it now?"

The other man took the jabs in stride. "Something Harry thought you should see. Don't know why, though, I mean, you're Malfoy."

"And that is a reason how?" Here Weasley wavered and Draco smoothly stepped in and took the lead, dodging past floating objects and moving doors and through long, dark hallways with fond familiarity.

"We kind of don't like you – "

"Yes, I gathered as such. I'm beginning to dislike you even more than usual, if you continue to find it necessary to barge into an Unspeakable's office without saying why."

" – but Harry thinks you're not as bad as you used to be."

"Flattering, but most probably an exaggeration, given my _profound_ irritation of losing hours of work."

"Exactly!" His self-satisfied expression made Draco cringe inwardly. Had he missed the last part of the sentence? "See, even you of all people understand."

"Your plight is one of horrors, I agree. As is mine, when it seems what I do is unimportant in anyone else's eyes besides the Minister's."

"Aaaand I take it back."

"What?"

"Now you're just making fun of me."

"I am afraid I don't understand. I am always sincere and genuine. Especially so when irritated."

"If that were true," Weasley said, one eyebrow inching towards his hairline, "I'd eat the hat that I'm not wearing right now."

Draco shrugged. "You've already barfed slugs. How much different could it be?"

"That was your fault."

"Your wand was the one that backfired."

"You called Hermione a mudblood!"

"I realize the error of my ways, mister Weasley. Such egregious name-calling hasn't happened since."

"Fat chance."

"The thinnest," Draco countered, and then they were on the main floor of the Ministry and walking towards one of the exits, this time on Weasley's call. "I may not be your favorite person but I am not completely impervious to the feelings of others, you know. Unlike you, seeing as I do have a job and you've no right to pull me away from it."

"Say whatever the hell you want, Malfoy."

"Maybe if you would listen I wouldn't have to repeat myself."

"I'm sorry, what?"

The sigh Draco released was aggravated. "Think you're clever, do you?"

"I can't hear you."

Draco gave up as they both took a pinch of Floo powder, whereupon Weasley directed him to a specific address on a street in London whose name reminded him vaguely of the word 'lemon'. The redhead predictably went first, and when Draco followed a few moments later, he was spewed out of the fireplace of what appeared to be the home of some muggles who thankfully were not in.

"Not very careful of you," he commented, and Weasley didn't respond, instead shoving out the door and gesturing for him to follow. He did without further remark, at least until they went out into the street. "So, again, what was so important you rushed me to leave my work unfinished?"

"Another body, another chemical. So it seems." Weasley shrugged, completely ignoring the former Slytherin's snide remarks, and Draco rolled his eyes as he elaborated, "Bubo-something last time, right? This time there's that, and the green stuff, and Harry managed to extract some sort of orange stuff from the stomach of the body."

Draco's mind immediately pulled up several candidates, sorted from most likely to least based on whether it was easily found, easily made, and consumable. "Viscosity?"

Weasley's answer was immediate, which would be a pleasant surprise had Draco not been distracted. "Kind of thick. Syrupy. Sticks to the sides of the container it's in."

The resulted in his brain were immediately narrowed down to three, each variations of the same chemical and only identifiable from each other when burned. "A form of Croaker's acid, then – truly a nasty chemical, though given the right ingredients and the proper charms, easily made. This was consumed?"

"Yes." Weasley gave him an odd look. "Are you sure it's – what did you say, Croaker's acid? You haven't even seen it."

"Why do you think the Minister recommended me to help you?" Draco shook his head. "I may be wrong, but there aren't many magically-occurring chemicals that come in the shade of orange with that thickness."

"You're probably wrong, if you haven't even had the chance to examine it."

"Mister Weasley, I am the best qualified in my career. There is a reason I have a cushy salaried job."

"Yeah, if you call that dump you got worth your job's cushiness," Weasley sneered. By now Draco could tell they are following the road to the hospital.

"An office is meant to work in, not to wait for people to tell you what to do," Draco said easily, fully aware of the battered look of his workspace. It didn't matter, not to him, because it was his, not his father's or mother's but his, and a lot of personal and important discoveries had happened in that room. "Regardless of appearance, it serves its purpose."

The redhead made a disbelieving sound at the back of his throat, and the rest of the walk to the hospital passed by in a silence. Draco felt completely at ease, given that Weasley was the one who was agitated and not he, and he even spared the secretary at the front desk the extreme glaring contest in favor of following Weasley directly down the hallway and into Potter's domain.

The person on the table was a woman, half of her face burned away completely to reveal the skull, an esophagus full of green, and then Potter was thrusting a vial of orange in his face. "Identify this," he said, in a tone that says _don't argue_.

"Do I have a choice?" Draco asked anyway as he took the vial and examined it closely. If he was being honest, being taken away from his office was probably for the best, but he still felt mildly irritated. He'd been in the middle of something.

"No. Do whatever you have to."

"Who says?" Draco was fully aware of how petulant he sounded, but he did not care enough to bother beyond mere realization. The look Weasley gave him could have peeled paint.

"Don't argue, Malfoy. Just do it."

"Look, I have already determined it is Croaker's acid, Potter. What else do you want me to do, exactly?"

"What do you mean, you already – "

"I told him about it on the walk here," Weasley interrupted, shooting the blond a suspicious look. "He figured out what it was based on my descriptions."

"And my hypothesis is confirmed now that I am viewing the contents. Really, mister Weasley, you should have just brought it with you when you came to interrupt my work."

"Oh, is that so? Well, excuse me for not knowing you were ever so skilled like that, Malfoy."

"Yes, really, and since I have mentioned this all too many times but it doesn't seem to penetrate your thick skull, I would appreciate it if you would not interrupt my work next time around."

"As if it was anything important! You were just poking some pink stuff around with a stick."

"Glass rod, and that 'pink stuff', mister Weasley, has blown up three different times already in a far more violent reaction than the one you could witness."

"Whatever, Malfoy."

"You go ahead and say that, because you know I've won this conversation. Now please explain why I needed to be here personally to describe this, and thank you kindly."

"I already told you, you came here to identify – "

"Maybe we wanted you to examine the body," Potter interrupted, his tone steely and his green eyes hard. Both Draco and Weasley fell silent at his glare, glowering at each other as if they were sixteen years old again. "Ever think of that?"

"No, because no one deigned it important enough to inform me as such," Draco snapped back, moving forward until he was on the right side of the body, and where his movements had been brusque before, his touch was now a gentle as a feather as he brushed the woman's charred face, noting the traces of bubotuber while observing the sickly green of her esophagus.

No one said anything for a while, though Draco didn't miss how Potter was glaring at Weasley to ensure the redhead didn't distract him with the sound of his voice. His mood went from angry to quiet and focused as he continued his examination; then he asked, "Potter, when did you find the body?"

"An hour, give or take."

"More than that," Weasley supplied, "Probably closer to two now."

"Did you find her like this?"

"No, the skin of her face has been slowly deteriorating since we brought her here."

"Bubotuber can be removed through the use of alcohol, which you can find on the shelves of most muggle pharmacies," Draco told him absently, running his fingers over the woman's stomach. The skin was strangely loose and had a texture remotely resembling sandpaper. "Use that if you want to keep the face intact next time. Of course, it's too late now. Do you know when the acid was consumed?"

"No."

"I would estimate three hours previous, perhaps two and a half. It was likely the cause of death and was hidden in the green here, though why she consumed that is beyond me. Perhaps she was force-fed." His tone was idle, as if he was talking about the weather.

"Anything else?" Weasley prompted, and Draco was taken aback for a few moments before seeming to think about it, tilting his head slightly to the left.

"From observations it seems likely her insides have been completely burned away," he said slowly, and then he shrugged. "I recommend wearing some sort of nose protection upon dissection, as well as either charmed or thick gloves. Other than that, I have nothing much else to offer."

"How is Croaker's acid made?" Potter asked.

"I believe I touched upon this earlier – ah, excuse me, with mister Weasley, not that he seemed too inclined to listen." Weasley actually had the audacity to stick his tongue out at him, and Draco rolled his eyes before continuing. "Essentially, it is a mix of common potion ingredients one can buy at Diagon Alley along with the head of a poisonous toad found only in the Amazon, the most crucial and rare ingredient. A few charms will increase its potency."

"Do you know how to make it?"

Draco made a move to respond, then stopped halfway, eyeing Potter with suspicion flashing in his gray eyes. "Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe you are implying something that is not all too flattering."

"Answer the question."

"Does this look like the Spanish Inquisition to you?"

"I highly doubt you are religious, and I wasn't aware you read up on muggle history," Potter countered, and then he sighed in frustration and asked again, "Look, I'm just asking. Do you know how to make it?"

There was a long, pregnant pause in which one could have heard a pin drop. Then Draco said, "It has been a while, and I never learned the incantations personally, but yes. I do know how to make it."

Weasley and Potter exchanged glances, swiftly enough that Draco could have missed it had he not been paying close attention. The two hadn't changed from his Hogwarts years; indeed, he could read them like open books, and did so every time he ran across them. "Is that all?" he asked, irritation making his words sharp. "Or do I have anything else you would like to hold against me in my upcoming trial?"

"We never said – " Potter began.

"You just as well admitted it just now." Draco's face darkened as he glared at the both of them. "I am aware the only reason I am here is because I am the only one knowledgeable enough to suit your needs, but that does not mean you can rashly accuse me when I am treading in my own domain."

"Maybe if you stopped talking about how big your brain is, we might be inclined to believe you," Weasley retorted, and he and Draco engaged in a furious staring contest, hands fisting at their sides, bodies taut as bowstrings, wands inches from their grasp. "You just keep implicating yourself."

"And you continue to find fault in every word I utter."

"Well, whose fault is that? You're the one acting like a teenager!"

"_I_ am? Look at yourself, mister Weasley, _listen_ to yourself, are those the words of someone completely and utterly innocent in that same matter?"

"Would you both _please_ shut up," Potter said tiredly, and then there was a knock on the door and it opened to reveal one harried-looking Hermione Granger.

"Harry, Ron, there's been – " She stopped halfway, seeing Draco and Weasley facing off next to a dead body while Potter looked on, and then she said cautiously, "Is it all right if I – "

"Oh, yes, please, go talk to your men," Draco said, disgust apparent in his tone, "and while you are doing so I will excuse myself. Good day, and I hope you both jump in a lake." He practically stormed past her, shoulders hunched and lips twitching back into a snarl.

As he stomped up the stairs, he could hear Granger's voice saying, "Ron, I've told you a million times, we can't afford to lose his expertise," though the response went unheard, and Draco wondered how he once again had become seen as an object and not a person.

"It's like being a Death Eater all over again," he muttered in dark humor, and he ignored the stricken look of the eavesdropping front desk secretary as he strode past.

* * *

"Firebrand."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"That would happen to be the name of the chemical, mister Weasley. Firebrand. Like a sword. Burns like flames."

"Did she die from it?"

"I can't say for certain."

"What does it do, then?"

"It causes internal bleeding upon consumption. Given its dark color and its tastelessness, it's easy to slip into wine or beer."

"You would know."

"Believe what you'd like, but remember that not all Death Eaters came out of the war a murderer."

* * *

"I know what that is, Ron, it's bleach. Don't go running off to Malfoy yet."

"What's bleach?"

"Do you know how strange it is that you don't know what bleach is?"

"Hey, my family's all wizards. And I don't go 'running off' to Malfoy."

"You two seem to enjoy each other's company."

"Ha ha. Look at how hard I'm laughing right now."

* * *

"All right, what is it you need me to do this ti – oh my god. What are you doing."

"Malfoy, are you – "

"Don't _touch_ that with your bare hands. Why did you even extract – are you all this moronic? That's _Scratch_, you don't touch Scratch without protection!"

"It's in a vial – "

"Put the Scratch _down_, Potter. Down!"

"Okay, okay, calm down, I'm setting it on the table here. There. Happy?"

"_Thank_ you. Do not do that again, I would like to live a long life."

"That implies you were worried about us."

"Mister Weasley, if you've seen what I have, you'd understand."

"Mm-hm."

"Ron, not now. Malfoy, what is that, exactly?

"Like I've already said, _that_ is Scratch, and it would do you well to not touch it so carelessly."

"What does it do?"

"Look at the body and you tell me."

"That's the thing, we can't really tell. As I've told you already."

"That's your problem, not mine. Give me the bottle, please. I will dispose of it safely."

"I don't think – "

"Mister Weasley, please take my word on this. You do not want to dispose of this incorrectly. You do not want this in the water people drink. It would be similar to the Black Plague."

"Here."

"Thank you, Potter. At least one of you has half a brain. Good day."

* * *

"You're telling me you've never seen this when you were at Hogwarts?"

"Should I have?"

"It's Tonic of Nike, Harry. You've _never_ seen this?"

"You know about it, Ron?"

"Were you not aware of the liquid students consumed in order to feel more confident before important tests?"

"I've never heard of it."

"You've obviously never become friends with the wrong crowd – what am I talking about, of course you haven't. But even mister Weasley knows what this is."

"I resent that."

"Resent what? I just credited you with having some aspect of knowledge on the subject."

"Yes, but at the same time you called me stupid."

"Did I hurt your poor little feelings? Knock your self-esteem down a few notches?"

"Shut up, Malfoy, you know that's not what I meant."

"Could this cause death?"

"Ah, yes, see, mister Weasley, take your cues from Potter and ask half-decent questions. It could, if consumed in extremely large amounts. I imagine the victim bled out, however."

"Why do you say that?"

"Why do I say anything? Look at the body, Potter, and you tell me."

* * *

"I haven't see Osiris's Salvation in years. Do you know how valuable a bottle this small is worth?"

"No, but I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

"Well, Potter, your feeling would be wrong."

"Very well. So what does it do, if it's so valuable?"

"Right now, since it is active, it is, for the most part, impossible to use. But if you know the right charm, you can deactivate it, in a sense, and proceed to coat it on everyday objects. Upon reactivation, it can be absorbed through the skin and will result in death after prolonged exposure."

"How long is prolonged exposure?"

"Five hours, give or take, if one person touches infected objects three times. Why are you snickering, mister Weasley?"

"Nothing. It's just, you know, you're implying objects can be 'infected'."

"Fine, they can be coated with poison. Better?"

"Not nearly as funny."

"Apologies, but I can't always be a laughingstock."

"You're never a laughingstock, Malfoy."

"Point taken and ignored, Potter. I am hilarious to myself, and I do not care if others do not laugh."

"That's a sign of mental instability."

"Better that than maniacal laughing."

"That was _one_ time, Malfoy. Let it drop, would you?"

"Afraid not, mister Weasley. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep with my actual job."

* * *

"He's practically admitting it every time he comes."

"He doesn't seem the type."

"He took the bottle."

"For good reason. I've been told by others Scratch is best left in experienced hands."

"Who else could it even be, though?"

"Ron, I know you really don't like him – none of us do – but if we get him arrested and we're wrong, we've just lost a valuable resource."

"But if we're right, then all these bodies will stop showing up."

"Do you really want to take that chance? Acting on a hunch has never done well for us."

"It did in school."

"We're not _in_ school, Ron. We're in the real world. Mistakes here will have much worse consequences then there."

"Yeah, but, honestly, Harry? There's a lot pointing at him right now."

"Bring it up with Hermione, all right. I'm just the coroner."

* * *

_A list containing the chemicals seen, compiled from the case notes of Hermione Granger, Private Investigator of Wizardly Crimes_:

1. green glowy stuff – when consumed results in asphyxia as it blocks air flow. (Must get official name of chemical from Malfoy.)  
2. bubotuber – burns skin and muscle away if powerful enough. Can also burn through bone?  
3. Croaker's acid – potent acid, powerful enough to destroy digestive system within a few hours if consumed.  
4. Firebrand – described to feel like a burning sword being thrust through one's stomach. Results in internal bleeding when consumed; death follows within a few hours without medical treatment.  
5. bleach – a common muggle product used in cleaning.|  
6. Scratch – very difficult to find information, as Malfoy was not forthcoming. Autopsy revealed little other than the fact the victim violently bled out.  
7. Tonic of Nike – potion whose ingredient list includes cocaine and marijuana, according to Malfoy. Results in wild delusion of victorious feelings, and is common in schools during O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s; an overdose will cause death within two hours without treatment.  
8. Osiris's Salvation – salve to be coated over objects. The poison within is absorbed through the skin.

_From the lab notebook of Draco L. Malfoy, pertaining to the experiments he has performed on the chemicals listed previously_:

1. green glowy stuff contains mercury – explains viscosity, but not its color nor its tendency to behave as glue when in contact with heat.  
2. bubotuber was made in large amounts, indicating a steady source of Corona's Fungi. Where and how? Must find location for own purposes. (May keep this from Minister as needed.)  
3. Croaker's acid of the third variety was consumed – the least painful in the long run. Oxymoronic, given it was a murder; why would they bother?  
4. Firebrand is rare and hard to make. Seems too extensive. Also is extremely expensive.  
5. Why use bleach when they've been dealing with Firebrand?  
6. Scratch of the newfound fifth variety, containing bubotuber in stronger potency than usual. (Spared them details for obvious reasons.)  
7. Tonic of Nike with both cocaine and marihuana, also contained traces of alcohol. Acts as both a depressant and a stimulant? Must investigate.  
8. Osiris's Salvation is bloody expensive to purchase, almost impossible to make without special permission to ingredients. How?

_From the notes of Harry J. Potter, pertaining to the autopsies performed on the deceased_:

1. Cause of death: asphyxia, due to blockage of air flow from mouth to lungs.  
2. Cause of death: asphyxia. Face disfigured after death.  
3. Cause of death: dissolving of the digestive system and, from there, the rest of the body as acid was absorbed into the bloodstream. Face disfigured after death, time of consumption of green chemical unknown.  
4. Cause of death: internal bleeding. Face disfigured at unknown time.  
5. Cause of death: poisoning. Skin damage from bleach, no traces of bubotuber on face.  
6. Cause of death: massive hemorrhaging, loss of blood. Face disfigured after death.  
7. Cause of death: bled to death due to thinning of blood. Scratch detected. Face disfigured.  
8. Cause of death: poison absorbed through hands. Fingers red and peeling, face disfigured.

* * *

When there was a knock on the door in the morning, Draco found he was no longer flinching in surprise, so often had either Potter or Weasley come calling. This concerned him to a minor degree as he pushed himself off of his couch, where he had been scanning _The Daily Prophet_, and padded towards the door, barefoot against the smooth wood.

When he opened it, Potter was arguing with Weasley and Granger was attempting to mediate. He watched without a word for a few moments, observing their frenzied antics with vague amusement; then he coughed delicately into his fist, once, and all eyes turned to him where he stood at the door, mouths shutting of their own accord and the silence loud where there was once noise.

"Having fun?" he asked blandly, and they gave him identical blank looks. He sighed and told them, "If you are going to argue, do it inside, please. I don't need any more attention from neighbors than I already have."

There was a lightning-quick flurry of movement, in which they all looked at each other, exchanging glances, before Potter began, "It's fine, we don't – "

" – we don't want to impose, of course, we – "

" – don't even want to be here, why are we here again, Hermione – "

"Come in," Draco repeated in the same bland tone as before, and at his steady stare the three obediently entered, heads ducked but eyes flicking in all directions, observing the interior of his rather plain home as he shut the door. "Coats on the rack, please. Living room is to your left. Make yourself comfortable, as comfortable as you can be in a Slytherin's house, in any case. I'll be with you shortly."

At this point the movements were mechanical, as he went to the kitchen: boil the water, take out the cups, find the tea, make the tea and everything else that encompassed. He brought it out all at once after a few minutes, carrying his own in his hand and the other three with his wand, and when he entered the living room he found Granger and Weasley on the couch while Harry was still standing. There was a single armchair remaining.

"Tea?" he offered mildly, and set all three down at the table as he gestured vaguely to the armchair with his hand, taking care not to spill his own drink. "Sit, Potter, unless you want to engage in a prolonged session of arguing who will do so. Which I do not have patience for at the moment."

As soon as Potter s-l-o-w-l-y took a seat, Draco sipped from his cup and said nothing, letting the atmosphere become more and more awkward with hidden glee. He did ever so love making people uncomfortable, especially so when he himself wasn't.

"I expected more," Weasley said at last, abrupt and sudden. Draco eyed him with a question on his lips as the redhead elaborated, "You know, more… stuff. Shiny things."

"I am not rich."

Weasley looked taken aback, and he said in a tone that said_ it's so obvious_, "But your father is."

"My father is now poor, and he disowned me years ago, mister Weasley. Did you not read the news?" Draco took a sip of his tea once more, feeling a spark of anger at his father and a twinge of pity for his mother. "I try not to spend on anything more than what I need, as I cannot afford it."

The silence stretched into a few seconds, then a minute, then two. Potter sat very still and ramrod straight in his chair, hands folded neatly in his lap; Weasley slouched forward, elbows resting on his knees. Granger, meanwhile, was the only one to have touched her cup of tea, and even then Draco assumed it was more a gesture of politeness than anything else.

"It's just as clean as I thought it'd be, though," Weasley said at last.

"I do not have guests nor am I here very often, so that is good to hear." Sip. "Now then. I believe I've let you simmer here in discomfort long enough. What is it you want?"

"Another body," Granger said, at the same time as Potter who said, "New chemical."

"Pink," Weasley added, and Draco felt one eyebrow inch its way into his hairline.

"Where?"

"We don't know. The body was on Harry's examining table when he came in this morning."

"I don't understand what that is that supposed to mean."

Granger shrugged helplessly. "It just appeared sometime during the night."

"Ah." Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his nostrils. "Any explosions?"

"No. Should there have been?" Here Potter finally looked up, and there was a haunted look in his eyes that momentarily stopped Draco's train of thought. Completely derailed it, in fact, and it took an awkward few seconds for him to regain control and put it back on track.

"Possibly," he said brusquely, and if anyone thought his temporary lack of response was odd, they said nothing. "I have been experimenting with something pink for several weeks already, and I have yet to discern its composition. I have not yet catalogued many of its… tendencies, either."

Realization lit up Weasley's face like a lightbulb. Draco found himself unable to look without being blinded by the redhead's sheer self-satisfaction. "You mean, the stuff you were poking when I came in a few weeks ago, that was – "

"Indeed."

"So you weren't lying when you said it could have exploded when I – "

"Yes," he snapped, setting his tea down and crossing his arms across his chest. "Look, I understand none of you like me, but really, you could give me the benefit of the doubt and realize that I have not ever lied to you."

"You did back in school."

"Did I? Give me an example." He watched Weasley for a few moments, as the former Gryffindor racked his mind. "Never mind, I suppose it's not important for you given how I seem to lie every single waking moment of my life." Potter was the only one who winced at the scorn in his voice, and Draco mentally gave him kudos in his mind.

"Could you examine the body?" Granger asked, changing the subject with no subtlety at all, and she sipped the tea self-consciously when he looks over with cutting eyes. Then she blinked and looked down at her drink. "Oh. Hey, this is pretty good."

"I'll accept that as a compliment, miss Granger," Draco said, and now since he was curious, Weasley took his cooled tea and took a drink, eyes widening a fraction of an inch in approval. "Very well, we will leave as soon as you are ready to depart. Potter, if you do not want that, I will take it."

Potter handed him the teacup and Draco drifted away to the kitchen, dumping the contents into the sink – normally he would drink it later, but he couldn't bring himself to touch anything that any of the three might've done something to. He then realized how stupid that sounded in his head, but decided that he didn't care enough to try and fix his unrealistic mindset.

The three were clustered together and whispering furiously when he came back, and he left them to it be in favor of getting his coat – simple, plain, fashionable, but most importantly, inconspicuous. His stealth code dictated that he have enough knowledge of fashion to dress appropriately and, therefore, like everyone else, and he was fairly certain he would have to get a new coat soon. Unfortunate, really, he was beginning to like this one.

"If you three are done bickering in there, perhaps we should get moving," Draco called without looking in the direction of his living room, instead slipping thin arm through the sleeves and then buttoning the front. The heaviness of his coat felt like the weight of an old friend, and he took a few moments to savor the feeling as the three rounded the corner and grabbed their own coats off of the hooks he had made them hang them on earlier.

As soon as everyone was close to ready, he opened the door and gestured out, saying mildly, "After you." They walked out without a word, and they continued walking as he stepped out, closed his door, and locked it before following. He ensured that he trailed a few paces behind; there was no need for people to think he was affiliated with them, especially if Potter were recognized.

Then Potter fell back and into step with him, letting Granger and Weasley walk ahead. He said nothing, and the two watched silently as Weasley's arm slipped around her waist.

"Having fun being third wheel?" Draco asked blankly into the silence.

Potter snorted and shook his head, the ghost of a smile curling his lips. "Immensely."

"Someone has to do it," Draco said with a shrug, and Potter choked on a laugh besides him as he remarked blandly, "Heaven knows we don't need any more Weasleys, but I was expecting a whole pack of redheaded children by now."

Potter took a moment to recover, and then he sputtered, "Don't let Ron hear you say that."

Draco immediately raised his voice, cupping his hands over his mouth, and called, "I was expecting a whole pack of – " only for Potter to slap his hand over Draco's mouth, effectively silencing him as the Slytherin glared at him.

"Ignore him," Potter called ahead, and both Granger and Weasley gave him the fish eye before returning their attention to each other. He removed his hand and Draco made a point of wiping his mouth as Potter whispered, "Did you have to do that?"

"You told me to."

"I did not."

"Did so."

"I told you _not_ to."

"Was there ever a difference?"

"You're an idiot."

"I resent that."

"Good. You're supposed to."

"Clearly."

"Yes."

"Very well."

"Okay."

"All right."

"Fine."

Nothing is said for a few seconds. Then Potter said, "That was dumb."

"Exceedingly so," Draco agreed, and they both laugh a little as the hospital looms into view, surprising Granger and Weasley into glancing back with questioning looks on their face. Nevertheless the pair up ahead went first, and they were talking to the secretary while Draco and Potter slipped past to the basement.

When they opened the door, the first thing Draco noticed was that the body's center was mutilated and there was gore splattered in a good five-foot radius around the table, and he said, "I get the sense of being in a horror movie," feeling his voice shake with something he couldn't quite pin a sentiment on.

"Thanks, Malfoy, that helps a lot." Both sidled up to the table, careful to step around the blood on the floor if they could. "So something exploded, you were right."

"Do you suppose there is more of it within the body?"

"I certainly hope not."

Draco has to resist the urge to laugh, a bit hysterically, as he said, "What if there were some in the head?"

"What do you – that's disgusting, Malfoy, why would you even – " Potter shuddered and eyed the blood coating the floor, table and some of the walls. "Brains, really? Ugh."

"You've already got intestines on the ground, what could be worse than that?" Draco couldn't help but let out an honest-to-goodness giggle at the thought of it, shoulders shaking as he covered his mouth and turned his face away. "And now I've disgusted myself. This hasn't happened in ages, fantastic."

Potter sighed breezily and said, "Focus, Malfoy," and Draco forced himself to regain his composure and turned back to the body, coming close enough to examine the exploded insides. His stomach roiled unpleasantly as Potter handed a pair of latex gloves to him without a word, and he snapped them on before poking around the congealed blood and finding, sure enough, a clump of somewhat solid pink.

"Rather like eraser putty," Draco noted in a strained voice as he lifted it out, blood staining his fingers and the pink coated a bright red. Potter made a face as he took it from him with a pair of tweezers and placed it in one of the numerous vials scattered around the lab, and Draco rooted around the body a bit more before stepping back. "I feel like I have violated someone," he said as he looked at the skin and blood and veins and tendons and who knows what else, and he had the violent urge to be sick as he carefully peeled the gloves off of his hands, careful to ensure no blood touched his fingers, and just about hurled them into the rubbish bin.

"This is a person whose face has been burned beyond recognition and has had their insides exploded open," Potter said matter-of-factly, "I don't believe there is anything else you could do that is worse."

Draco swallowed hard and focused his eyes on Potter's, who was looking down at the body with a distant expression on his face. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd seen someone dead or disfigured, but the sight of the _inside_ of the body wasn't one he was all too happy in viewing. "You certainly know how to make a person feel better."

"It was the best I could do, given that this is what my job basically is. You get numb after a while."

"I believe it." And he did. How couldn't he, when he was on the verge of throwing up while Potter was standing there nonchalantly, muttering about finding a mop so he could clean up the mess while eyeing the corpse's guts. "However, I still think I am going to go now."

"You do look a little green," Potter agreed mildly, and he handed him the vial of blood and pink stuff, which Draco pocketed after looking at for a period of time. "Come back in an hour – I'll have it cleaned up by then."

"You still require my services? After I offered you shelter in my humble abode and gave you hot leaf drinks?" Draco's hand found its way to his chest, resting flat above his heart, as Potter scoffed at his wording for 'tea'. "You offend this sensitive soul."

"My god, Malfoy, stop, your histrionics are awful," Potter snapped, but there was no venom in his voice and Draco could see a trace of a smile on his face. "Just make your way back here eventually."

"We shall see," Draco said as he departed out the door, and as he clomped up the stairs, ignoring the heavy feeling in his stomach, he immediately began to rack his mind to see what tests he would have to perform on the newly-acquired sample of pink stuff. "To the Ministry it is," he murmured as he passed the front desk, and he ignored the way both Granger and Weasley swung around to look at him.

* * *

Later, as he had predicted, he didn't manage to find his way back to the hospital, so engrossed was he in his experiments that he failed to notice the passing of time. Blood, it seems, threw a curveball in all of the previous experiments he had conducted, as it didn't come off when he attempted to soak it in water (a dangerous necessity, as the pink stuff reacted explosively to it).

He tried a simple flame test with the blood-cloaked sample and found that burning dried blood didn't accomplish much of anything, and also that the pink stuff had pretty much drawn the blood around it like a shield and was basically impenetrable, short of actually stabbing it, of course. (Which he also did, but with no significant results.)

A lot of what he did accomplish that day was repeating experiments that he'd performed with the other sample, the larger one that had gone through endless poking, prodding, freezing, boiling and everything in between with nary a change in appearance. The reactions he got were basically absolutely nil; somehow the blood was protecting the pink from whatever he threw at it. Even when he boiled it, nothing occurred, and when it reformed and he worked it into a clumped form, it retained the resistant properties it had exhibited before.

He had no idea what to make of it, and he ended up dinking around his workplace and equipment until so late that he didn't even realize he should be sleeping until he checked the old clock sitting in the corner and _hm_, it was three in the morning. How time flies, he thought to himself as he took the small, small blood-pink stuff sample and dropped it into its vial with a tiny pair of tweezers, absently placing it upright on the counter. He'd visit Potter later and inform him the results of his experiments, or rather, the lack thereof.

He trailed his way out of the Ministry, the whole lot largely abandoned except for the oddball wizard or witch here and there. It was rather quiet, and he could appreciate that in a place that was all hustle-bustle with hardly any breaks in-between. London, as well, seemed to have a dampener on the sounds, and he walked home in the dark with a sense of absent contentment.

He didn't even notice the person standing on his stoop until he was close to it, yawning. Even then, his mind did not process that he should be concerned there was a figure by the entrance to his flat, and he instead found himself asking politely, "Excuse me" – only to be grabbed, spun around, shoved hard against the door, and lifted by his collar, jarring his head against the surface of the wall next to the entryway of his flat. He blinked blearily a few times, and it took a few moments for him to adjust and take note of green, green eyes glaring daggers at him.

"What did you give my friends," Potter snarled, and Draco blinked again, now more confused than exhausted. This earned him a rough shake that caused the back of his head to smash against the wall a few times, and he was feeling relatively dizzy when Potter snaps again, loudly, "What did you give them?"

"What exactly do you – " _Calm, Draco, find your voice, find your reason._ It took him a few seconds, and then he said wearily, "Potter, what are you going on about?"

"My friends – are in – the hospital because of you," Potter hissed in response, and each break in his speech was accented by another wall slam. Draco got the sense of being mugged and he somehow found this hilarious for whatever reason, but he wisely refrained from showing it on his face as Potter continued, "Whatever was in the tea. What was it?"

He took another few moments to catch his breath before speaking. "That was a mixture of chamomile, honey and vanilla," Draco said, "A simple herbal tea that can soothe the throat and lower stress."

"I don't care, Malfoy, just answer the question."

"And please do stop with this physical attack, we all know that magic is far more effective. Also I may get a concussion."

"Again. Do you think I _care_?"

"I would, if I were you," Draco replied mildly, feeling his logical sense finally come to his rescue. "Responsible for whatever Granger and Weasley have right now or not, I _am_ your best bet to figuring out what they consumed."

Silence reigned for a long few seconds, a dictator bringing a heavy weight and a ringing in his ears; then Potter dropped him and he slowly got to his feet, hands massage his throat as he tried to gasp in air as quietly as possible. His heart thumped at a million miles a minute – god, he hadn't been this nervous before, what happened – as Potter snarled, "When I get truth serum, I am going to use it on you, I swear to anything you hold sacred."

Despite the situation, Draco wheezed out a laugh. "Please, Potter, we know any god would have abandoned me long ago. There's no reason for me to lie to you now."

* * *

Entering the hospital room was like a fresh slap to the face, especially when a pale Weasley weakly called out, "Excellent idea, Harry, just go bring in the guilty party like a fuckin' moron."

"Yeah, I'm not happy about it either, but what choice do we have?" Potter said bitterly, his grip tightening to a vice one on the blond's arm. Draco chose to keep silent, though it took some effort to not snap back an instant retort.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He says he didn't do it, and he's got the best chance at knowing what you ingested."

Weasley snorted, and somehow the noise cut Draco to the core. "Yeah, because he did it, idiot."

"I resent that," the former Slytherin replied shortly, feeling something twist in his gut.

"Who else could it be?" Weasley demanded, his expression one of stone.

"A plethora of other people. Be reasonable, mister Weasley, do you really think the tea I gave you was poison?"

"It tasted funny," he sniffed.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Honey and vanilla lend for sweetness, chamomile for bitterness."

"It tasted like bitter almonds."

"Do you think I'd put _cyanide_ in tea, mister Weasley?"

"I wouldn't put it past you." Draco reared back like he had been punched, only for Potter to roughly jerk his arm, and therefore him, forward again, and he stumbled ahead and stared into Weasley's pale, scornful face. He felt more miserable than anything.

He had really begun to think that these three were not his enemies and didn't quite hate him. Disliked him, yes, but they were open to perhaps accepting he was different than the picture everyone had painted and touched up for years – but no, apparently not, they were just like all of the others. He would always be isolated in this world, and no one could ever trust him nor would anyone ever want to.

"Move aside, Potter," he said in a clipped tone, just about shoving Potter away from him and towering over Weasley's bedside. The man must've been startled by his sudden change in demeanor, as he did not stop Draco in any way. "Mister Weasley, I expect you not to move or I will have to restrain you. Is that clear?"

"Go away," the redhead snarled in response, and Draco's eyes narrowed as his wand was drawn in a flash. He waved it once, muttering "_Incarcerous_" under his breath, as the redhead opened his mouth to put out another complaint.

String from the blanket Weasley was lying under immediately knitted itself into ropes, binding his wrists and ankles and preventing him from further motion; further, when the redhead began to protest loudly, Draco snapped, "_Muffliato_" and pointed vaguely around the room. Then he finally brought the tip of his wand over so it was hovering over Weasley's mouth, only to be interrupted, once again, when Potter's arms enclosed themselves around him and quite literally manhandled him away.

Easily fixed, Draco knew, and he flicked his wand so it was aiming over his shoulder and at Potter and said flatly, "_Petrificus Totalus_," feeling the other man's arms fall away as they snapped to his sides. If he was feeling particularly remorseful he might have caught and leaned Potter against a wall; as it stood, he let him fall flat to the ground and advanced once more to Weasley, after a quick glance to ensure Granger was unconscious.

"I do apologize for this. It will feel rather uncomfortable."

"Go to hell," Weasley spat, weakly.

Draco was unmoved. "_Silencio._" Once that was done, Draco tells him, "That is my destination apparent as is, Weasley. Now close your mouth."

Weasley did the direct opposite of his request, which was Draco's intention all along. His wand quickly moved to hover over the redhead's mouth again and he paused, unsure of whether to proceed. He had used this spell when liquids were stuck in material things, not people – what if it resulted in something terrible?

Well, too late now, he reflected, and he whispered under his breath a spell of his own devising, a variant of the _anapneo_ spell, flicking the wand just so once to the left, up, left, down. Weasley made a gagging sound as something rapidly traveled up his trachea, and Draco lifted his wand as the stuff exited from his lips, immediately casting a harried "_Wingardium Leviosa_" and levitating whatever he'd just gotten so it did not dribble onto Weasley's face.

The stuff writhed and spun in the air, clear with spots of all shades of violet, and his mind immediately began to file information into his brain. From appearance, it might contain morphine, and it seemed that it was liquid at room temperature and higher. He hazarded that there might to be magical ingredients, given the sporadic flashing. Blood was lazily spinning around within the clear parts – in his mind this indicated absorption of it somehow, perhaps into the bloodstream.

Weasley was watching it all, absolutely spellbound (ha, ha. Terrible pun, that), and he did nothing but stare as Draco gently floated the stuff into a bottle tucked into one of the many pockets of his coat. The redhead didn't even bother moving when the blond waved his wand to unmute him and release the ropes holding him, the blanket stitching itself back into being. Even when Draco repeated the process with Granger, placing the contents into yet another bottle, Weasley failed to protest, and he still hadn't uttered a word when the former Slytherin freed Potter, lying motionlessly on the floor.

"Happy, Potter?" he snarled as the other slowly got to his feet, eyes down. "I've rescued your little _friends_ for you, since you apparently can't do anything but wallow in dead bodies and have them drag you through life." He held both bottles out to Potter, each one labeled with a name courtesy of a sharpie he kept hidden in his pocket (he had to admit, muggles had some very good technology). "I suppose you'll want these as well."

Potter took them after a long moment, and something in his eyes were different – less sharp, softer, delicate, almost. Draco refused to feel intimidated, though something in his chest twinged at the thought that maybe, just maybe, he had gone and lived up to his reputation. How many had he hurt these past few years, not just his enemies, but his friends and family as well?

"Good night," Draco said stiffly, and he tucked his wand into the pocket specially-made into his coat, pausing at the doorway as he called back, "I expect you'll understand when I say I will begin to charge for my services."

Then he slammed the door, slipped down the hallways and down the stairs, and padded into the night.

* * *

The very next morning at precisely eight A.M. there was a knock at his door, and his body automatically rose from his couch, where he had been drinking tea and reading the newspaper, to greet whoever was there. Naturally upon opening the space outside his door was devoid of any person, but as he looked down he found a package when a note. _SORRY_, it said, scrawled in a harried pen.

When he picked it up and looked more closely, he saw the initials _HP_ preceding by a dash; after a long hesitation and completely against his better judgment, he brought it inside and closed the door, placing it on the coffee table next to _The Daily Prophet _as he returned to his perch on the couch.

It was a simple brown paper bag tied with twine around a squarish object. Draco had never been more suspicious in his life, but he sighed and untied the rope with long, spidery fingers and held his wand at the ready as he carefully unfolded the paper.

Inside rested both bottles of the stuff he'd given to Potter yesterday and a thick, rectangular envelope that bore his name in graceful letters and green ink. He scowled – why green, always green, it was as if it was Potter's favorite color – and flicked it to the back, where he opened it with his finger and drew out a short note, in the same handwriting as the words he'd seen before.

_Malfoy:_

_Sorry about yesterday. Please analyze these for me. (Enclosed is proper payment.)_

_Harry_

Draco pursed his lips and placed the letter on the table, peering into the envelope with undisguised curiosity now. Indeed, a gleam of coins caught his eye, and he folded the envelope up and placed it next to the letter and package, standing and sipping his tea as he went to fetch his coat and its many pockets.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered to himself as he took the two bottles and placed them into one of his bigger pockets. They clinked together with the numerous other glass containers within – he'd cast a spell that made the pocket larger than it actually was – and he tucked the envelope with money into yet another pocket as he slipped his wand up his sleeve for easy access.

He finished his tea and hesitated when he saw the note from Potter lying on the table, and after a moment, he picked it up and slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans. He couldn't afford having something Happy Potter himself touched in his home; those things were meat off the bone to hungry dogs as stories were to desperate journalists.

He shuddered as he locked his door, walking over to the telephone booth and to the Ministry, and reflected that it was going to be a long day, as the bottles clinked in his coat and Potter's note weighed heavy in his pocket. He couldn't wait to get back to his workspace so he could take his mind off his current social problems.

And then he laughed to himself, because a few weeks prior to this, he had no such problems to speak of, let alone think of. Hilarious. He was still chuckling about it as he made it to the Ministry and set to work, opening one bottle and dumping its contents into another beaker he'd taken down from one of his dusty shelves, and then he was utterly absorbed into his work until his stomach growled as a personal alarm.

He was on his lunch break, sitting alone and people-watching at a table for two in front of a muggle bistro near his flat, when he heard steps purposefully making their way in his direction. He'd already schooled his face into one of bored casualness by the time Potter slipped into the seat across from him.

"Anything?" the other asks, brows knit, and Draco flicked his eyes over to him for a split second before viewing the small, endless crowd of people flow past him.

"I don't suppose miss Granger knows a spell that can reveal a potion's composition?" he asked Potter, taking a dainty bite of his sandwich – nearly gone – and waiting patiently for the other's response.

"I could ask," he said at last, shifting uncomfortably, and Draco nodded as he finished off his sandwich and stood gracefully to his feet.

"Do so, and ask me again later." He left without another word, and felt Potter's eyes on his back until he turned a corner.

In reality he did not need a spell to identify the liquid's ingredients – his original conjecture of the contents containing morphine was proven to be false, although it did contain traces of tryptophan, an amino acid that helped one sleep if properly prepared. The violet, meanwhile, came from dicing the plant alihotsy, while the clear part was actually cyanide, perhaps why Weasley mentioned it during Draco's visit. Whoever is making these, he noted to himself later, is highly skilled in Herbology. (It was a good thing he touched up on that particular subject before entering his line of work.)

Nevertheless, Granger did teach him a helpful spell when he reluctantly decided he has stalled for long enough and went into their office to explain his results. "_Specialis Revelio_," she said, and it took Draco multiple times to cast it correctly on the bottles he had brought back to talk about. His previous findings had been proven correct, although there were also traces of an infusion of gurdyroot, which lent to the violet color more than the alihotsy.

"I would suggest essence of rue for the both of you," Draco said after explaining his results, nodding first at Granger, then at Weasley. "For all you are on your feet at the moment, the poison likely still circulates in your system, and rue is a thriftier buy than Antidote for Most Poisons."

"How do we know you're telling the truth?" Weasley, again, and this time both Potter and Granger gave him a look.

Draco sighed heavily, hiding his hurt behind a steel mask. "You can either perform research to see if I am being honest, or you may go and spend an excessive amount on the Antidote as the Healers no doubt prescribed. Then again, I suppose you wouldn't even bother checking my credibility, considering who I am and the bias that has followed my reputation."

He offered the bottles to Potter who, after some hesitation, took them from him, and from the way he eyed them he suspected Draco has tampered with them. The Slytherin then turned and brushed out the door without a customary polite farewell or even a backwards glance, intent on using the new spell on the pink mixture sitting quietly in his workplace. He could feel their eyes on him right up until the door closed behind him.

He retraced his steps to the Ministry and, from there, where he worked in a thoughtful silence, creasing the fabric of his coat between two fingers as he opened his door and closed it behind him.

On his counter sat a vial he was positive was not there when he left.

"First a surprise package, now a glass bottle containing questionable liquids," he muttered to himself, drawing his wand and approaching the vial, wand outstretched and his lips parted in preparation of a protection spell. Nothing happened when he poked it, and he then paused to read the note laid flat right next to it.

_Mr. Draco L. Malfoy:_

_I'm sure you know what this is. If you do not, you will learn soon enough. I would suggest you note that if this is found in your possession by certain investigative parties, you just might be arrested for a myriad of serial murders._

_Do take care._

_- OT_

He looked up at the vial on his counter, and within it rested a clear liquid spotted with purple splotches, then back down again to reread the slip of paper. When he carefully flipped it around, he found a post-script:

_P.S. This note will proceed to burn into ashes ten minutes after placement. I trust you will finish reading before then._

Draco immediately glanced at the clock and took note of the hour, stepping quickly over to where he kept his quill and ink and scrawling the current time in the margins of his research paper. He then watched the note right up until it began to curl with invisible heat, and by the time he had scritch-scratched the new time down the parchment had been reduced to a pile of ashes on his counter. From there, he determined when the letter had been planted – a mere two minutes, seventeen seconds before he'd returned to his workplace.

"O. T.," he wrote next to the numbers, and then he set his quill down and went back over to the vial, lifting it and examining it in the light. It was most definitely the identical liquid that found its way into both Weasley's and Granger's digestive tract, and his priority at the moment was to dispose of it immediately. Following that, he would cast the necessary spells to track the placer of the vial down.

But it's never that easy, he told himself, and he instead placed it on his dusty shelf, casting a disillusionment charm and tucking it behind a larger jar of the green glowy stuff. He had neither the time nor the patience to dispose of the vial properly, safely, and without detection; if any of the trio caught wind of him having it in his hands, he would be arrested without a thought and never would he be able to regain his quiet, stealthy lifestyle.

He'd do it later. When he had time, and he didn't have two very powerful wizards and one very powerful witch miffed at him, and when he didn't have a serial killer named O.T. sending him cryptic messages.

And how had said serial killer gotten in here, anyway?

* * *

When he returned home, slept, and prepared for another monotonous day at the Ministry in the morning, he opened his door to a dead body lying facedown and haphazardly over the concrete. Much to his retrospective shame, his first thought was whether he would have to buy special cleaning products to clean the blood off of the cement.

After a few more seconds of staring, he cast a Patronus, something he'd mastered after an embarrassingly long time of practice. There were few happy memories that he could relive, but once he had learned how to access them, the wispy white had taken form of a hare. It fit him, in any case – hares were careful, shy, skittish, clever, much like he was.

"Please tell me the dead body on my doorstep is the idea of a very bad prank," he said, and then he sent it off on its way to Potter with a wave of his wand.

He watched it hop away before going down to examine the body, turning it over so he could see its head. It took him a few moments to brush away the dirk and grime that coated the skin, but once he did, his heart stopped and he felt the blood drain from his face as he recognized Blaise Zabini's blank eyes and slack mouth.

* * *

**Cliffhanger? Yes. **

**Again, I am not entirely pleased with how this chapter came out, for obvious reasons. I'm not entirely pleased with the entire story, actually, probably because it's in a new fandom that I didn't ever plan on joining. I don't know anything about commonly-accepted fanon interpretations of characters and events, which makes things difficult.  
**

**Actually, the terrible part about this whole venture is that I don't know nearly enough about chemistry to make anything realistic. Thank goodness for magic, because it can explain all the things that I don't really know how to do or describe.**

**Also I have no idea what Draco's Patronus is, so I gave him a hare. Hares are good, right? I think so.**


	3. iron argon

**Please excuse any small errors or mistakes - this has been minimally edited and I should have looked at it a bit more, but there are finals soon and I need to put this up on time.  
**

**I have not, do not, and will never own Harry Potter or its characters.**

* * *

"You're taking all of this rather calmly." Weasley's voice rang tinny in Draco's ear, and he felt himself sort of curl up, almost cowering, as the redhead continued, "Kind of suspicious, if you ask me."

"Yes, because it makes perfect sense for someone to drag their dead friend they have been avoiding to their front door," he retorted, but it was weak and quiet and his voice was quivering ever so slightly and he was freezing.

"Still, it merits some investigation, don't you think?"

"Stop it, Ron," Potter said without looking up, and, properly admonished, Weasley's mouth shut of its own accord. Draco didn't even spare the time to give him a victorious smirk, instead remaining huddled on a chair in the corner of Potter's workplace, knees drawn to his chest and his entire body cocooned in a blanket. God, it was cold, his teeth wouldn't stop chattering. "Just leave him be."

Potter worked quietly for the next few minutes while Weasley paced impatiently, his feet dead silent on the tiled floor that Draco had seen covered in guts. The Slytherin rocked slightly back and forth on his hard chair, unsure and unknowing of what was coming next but certain that _something_ was going unfortunate was going to befall him.

"Malfoy, I need you to look at this," Potter said, as if on cue, and Draco did not move from the chair because it was one of his _friends_ was being dissected on a hard, metal table.

It was fine when it was people he didn't know, but he _knew_ Blaise. They'd known each other since their first year at Hogwarts, and they'd gone through similar experiences as the war had gotten more and more integrated into their lives - yet there he was, lying cold and still on a slab of steel, his body picked apart by a man he had barely trusted, and Draco didn't want to look at him anymore.

"Malfoy," Potter said more forcefully, and Draco hated the squeak that came out of his mouth when Weasley brusquely put him on his feet, vice grip squeezing his arms as he was led to the table and stopped a short distance away. "Do you know what this is?"

He was pointing at something that was in Blaise's lungs, a harsh purple liquid that stirred slightly as Draco stared. After a few moments of blanking out, he made a connection in his mind. "Infusion of gurdyroot," he said inaudibly, and he jumped when Weasley elbowed him and repeated more loudly, "Infusion of gurdyroot, same thing both mister Weasley and miss Granger ingested, probably infused some sort of poison within. I'd have to analyze it in my lab to determine if that is the case."

Potter's eyebrows furrowed. "Infusion of gurdyroot is a drink, isn't it? Luna mentioned it before." Weasley made a noise of assent as Potter asked, "How did it get into the lungs?"

"You're the anatomy expert," Draco responded tiredly, hugging the brown blanket more tightly around him. It smelled faintly of chemicals and no doubt had touched dead flesh, but he didn't really care at the moment because, at the very least, it hadn't been Blaise's dead flesh. "Add in the magical possibilities and I don't quite know why you're asking me."

Potter looked like he was going to say something – his eyes flicked over to him, and he pursed his lips – when Weasley butted in. "How soon can you have the stuff analyzed?"

"I'm not feeling quite, er, optimal at the moment, so perhaps," _deep breaths_,_ Draco_, and he finished, "A few days."

"Sooner rather than later," Weasley growled, and the Slyterin shrank back in his blanket, feeling pathetically vulnerable. "We have to catch the guy before he – "

"Ron, stop."

"Harry – "

"_Ron_." The redhead fell silent and glared at the coroner. "How would you feel if Luna died? Leave him alone." Draco made a mental note to thank Potter later, when he didn't feel so cold and numb, as Weasley fell silent. "Malfoy, you don't have to stay if you don't want to."

Normally it was an offer he would refuse – but now he couldn't even look at the body, keeping his eyes downcast and carefully away, and so he mumbled, "Thank you." He shed the blanket and folded it neatly on the back of the chair before padding towards the door. He hesitated before he left, and then he turned back and told Potter, "Do you know anything about his funeral arrangements?"

"It's covered," Potter said without turning to face him, and while something in his tone seemed off, Draco took him for his word and quietly departed the room, leaving his friend behind and wondering if he would be next.

* * *

"You know no one can know he's dead. Not until the case is solved."

Harry sighed. "I know, but what else was I supposed to tell him?"

"I'm not saying you did the wrong thing," Ron said in a tone that clearly indicated he thought the opposite, "but there were better ways to do it."

"Yeah, thanks, Ron. At least I didn't badger the guy who'd just found his friend's dead body on his stoop."

"I'm a private investigator. That's what I do."

"That's no excuse."

Ron shrugged. "I wasn't trying to give one."

A heavy silence settled, and Harry leaned back from the metal table to look up at his best friend. "We're both terrible people, aren't we." It came out flat.

Ron nodded in agreement, his expression unreadable as he said, "The war changed all of us in some way, for better or for worse."

* * *

Duty called after only a few hours of sitting completely still on the couch, contemplating his life choices and the thought of death and what it wrought. It came in the form of someone knocking a careful staccato pattern. He didn't want to answer it because what if it was another dead body, what if this, what if that – but he mechanically stood up and padded over to the entrance, opening his door to find one Hermione Granger standing on his stoop.

"Here," she said, and she handed him a small, sealed flask of purple liquid. It was flecked with red, and his hand was visibly shaking as he took it from her. "I'm sorry," she said, a little stiffly, and then she took off down the street, walking with purpose, walking with precision. He stared after her for a long time, even after she was long gone, before he tucked the flask into a coat pocket, quietly closing the door.

His hand rested on the knob as he closed his eyes and inhaled, seven counts, exhales, eleven more – he couldn't afford to be distracted. Focus (_glazed eyes open mouth blood almost dry_) on what was important. The quiet work life of a chemist-but-not-quite wizard was never over, so it seemed, especially when aforementioned chemist was involved in a murder plot that had killed not only his friend but also many others. "You can mourn later,after this is done," he murmured to himself. "Hold on until then."

This was nothing new; he'd done the same after the war, and it had taken him years to slowly let the memories back in, after reliving the atrocities of the past almost constantly in his dreams. Now the stakes were higher, though – not as high as they were in the war, but high enough that he had to jump into action: he had to find the mysterious O.T. at all costs. Even, he told himself, if he lost his own life in the process.

* * *

He'd kept the ashes from the letter from O.T., and as soon as he locked his door with an absent wave of his wand, he fetched the jar with them inside and unscrewed the lid.

"Now what do we have here," he whispered, his wand hovering over the open mouth. The ashes swirled up lazily to meet the tip of it, and he carefully placed the fine white dust in his cupped palm. In a spurt of childishness he found himself murmuring, "Tell me your secrets."

Predictably the ashes didn't do anything except sit there, as he had not uttered an actual spell, and he sighed. He hadn't forgotten that it wasn't likely he knew any tracking spells that would be very effective – in fact, this was probably more up Granger's alley, now that he thought about it, but he wasn't willing to go talk to her. Heavens, no.

"I suppose research is in order, then," Draco said to himself, and he floated the ash back into the jar and sealed it tight, placing it back on the shelf.

He then left his workplace to peruse the rather large library located at the Ministry. It would be a hassle to actually get what he wanted, seeing as the librarian had no qualms about scorning him and the organization of all books could be loosely described as _terrible_, but given some time, he was sure he could find it. If all went well, he would find it within the hour.

_I always have plenty of time, in any case_, he thought, and then a moment later, _and that is really quite sad._ Maybe he should actually try and make friends, or at least keep in the touch with the ones he'd once had. Blaise had mentioned that he might still have them despite years of unresponsive owls, so there was a chance he still could, perhaps, knot his ties with them.

_You'd probably sever them instead._ Why, yes. Thank you, logical side of brain. (_One of them has already died, better quit before it gets worse_. Eurgh.)

He refocused his attention on his primary task, which was to go the library, and he sped up his pace. It felt like Hogwarts all over again as he stopped at the entrance, and then he entered with a mild trepidation tinged with utmost caution.

"Look who decided to drop in," an oily voice called out, and he momentarily froze in place. _Dammit_. "Haven't seen you around in a while."

Draco didn't say anything in response, keeping his pace purposefully slow when in reality he wanted to rush and hide behind a shelf. The librarian kept talking. "What's the matter, Malfoy? Cat got your tongue?"

"This is a library," Draco replied in something akin to a snap, but not quite. "Silence is perfunctory, as I recall."

This rewarded him with boisterous laughter, followed by the furious hushing of wizards and witches all around the room. Draco considered this a victory as he brushed past a shelf and was hidden from view, and then he stopped and thought about what he was actually looking for. He would rather drink poison than ask the librarian for help, though he had to smile at how petty he had become.

_Tracking spells_. Right. Knowing the wizarding community, tomes with those sorts of spells would not be in the place one would expect them to be, and so Draco reserved at least two hours' time, rather than just the one, to find what he needed. Muggles had organizing books down to a science, and he grumbled to himself as he perused the shelves; really, would it kill his peers to consider utilizing the Dewey decimal system? (It probably would.)

He sighed and went to the section simply labeled 'Hunting Charms', craning his neck to view the enormous amount of books sprawling up and up before him. It would take him decades to take a look at each book individually; he would just have to haphazard a guess and hope the tome would have what he needed.

He ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach when he realized he would likely have to ask Granger for the spell in the end, and it didn't deter him as he fingered a book at random off the shelf and began to paw through its yellowed pages. Levitation, no; transfiguration, no; conjuration, no; he grimaced outright at the entire three chapters devoted to defense against the dark arts, and shut the book and put it back in its place.

The next one went more or less the same way. So did the one after that, and the one after that. It wasn't until he's scanned over fifteen tomes, at least a half-hour later, that he found something remotely close to what he was looking for.

"Tracking magical creatures," he read aloud, quietly of course, eyes narrowing, "Especially effective for dragons." He was tracing something with magical properties, so it was worth taking note of, and as such he flipped through the pages until he found the one spell that might work for him. The words were not complex, nor the hand movements, but its effectiveness wasn't guaranteed unless the source one was tracking held high amounts of magical power. Still, he thought it was worth remembering.

He fumbled for a piece of paper and found a scrap in his pocket, copying the words he saw onto the parchment in his hand with a little spell and his wand. Then he put the book back, slipping the paper into his coat again, and began the search anew.

This time it didn't take as long, and he was going through another book in a matter of minutes. "Tracking the owners of artifacts or other lost items," he whispered, and smiled; this was exactly what he was looking for. There were multiple spells inside, too, and he closed it to peer at the cover and the title: _A Ranger's Guide_. Apparently there was an entire tome dedicated to those who sought items both rare and not.

It would be best if he checked it out, he decided, even as he briefly considered the suspicions the entire thing might raise; he determined a few seconds later that the benefits outweighed the cons, and so he strode to the front desk and slid the tome over to the librarian.

"Interesting choice," the man said with that disgustingly nasal voice of his, and Draco merely looked at him, expression neutral. Receiving no response to his jab, the librarian checked it out of the ledger and returned it to him. "Bring that back within two weeks or there will be trouble."

"There is always trouble about, I'm afraid," Draco replied, and he quickly swept out of the room before the librarian could accost him further. One bullet dodged, only a thousand others ready to blow holes in him. Well, what else was new.

As soon as he entered the main atrium of the Ministry, the heightened noise hitting his ears like a cannon, he began the retreat back to his workspace, book tucked under one arm, eyes clear and focused. Survival came second to finding the criminal, in any case; if being successful in his venture meant sacrificing what little he had, he was glad for it. He had learned early on the sweet taste of revenge, and now with the death of one of his closest friends, he had ever-more reason to continue the search.

"Malfoy!"

And here came another bullet now to hit him in the chest, straight from a shotgun. Draco turned first his head, then stopped and completed the spin in full. Potter looked harried and worn, dark shadows under his eyes and a profound sense of sadness in his eyes, and the Slytherin wondered how much this case actually meant to the other.

He asked the first logical question. "Did someone else die?"

"What – oh." The expression of confusion cleared. "No, that's not why I'm here."

"Am I being formally accused?"

"Look, Malfoy, Ron can say what he likes, but I'm certain you didn't do it after the, er. Fiasco, the other day."

"Your faith in me is refreshing, yet likely misplaced." He could feel the sad smile on his face, and he wiped it away as quickly as he could. Potter evidently took note of it, however, and something changed in the depths of his green eyes. "Mister Weasley or miss Granger have been put in danger again?"

"No. They're being careful."

"I can understand if my tea no longer appeals to you." Potter snorted, and Draco continued, "You have something you wish to speak to me about?"

"In a sense. Can I ask you a favor?"

"Walk with me." Potter did so, falling into step with him. "Depending on what it is, I'll see what I can do."

"I kind of need it right now." Deep breath, and then, "Can you get the paparazzi off of my tail?"

There was a momentary lack of thought as his thought processes flatlined; then Draco swore a colorful array of words, putting his hand on Potter's shoulder and shoving him forward as he broke into a sprint. "Christ, Potter, why didn't you say so _sooner_. You didn't see Rita Skeeter there, did you?"

"I was trying to, but you got me off-topic. And she's leading the whole pack."

"Apologies. Follow me." Draco made a quick turn and felt Potter keeping pace behind him as they raced through dark hallways. "I didn't realize how loud it had gotten, which admittedly should have been my first clue. Left here."

"Yeah, I saw you come out of the library. What were you looking for?"

"Tracking spells." The answer was automatic, and Draco realized a moment too late that saying the truth may have been a mistake. Why was it that with Potter his mouth took a mind of its own? _And why am I not exactly angry about that?_ "It's a long story."

"I'll listen."

"You might not have a choice. Miss Skeeter has a tendency to hang around for hours in an attempt to get an interview." Draco picked the correct door by memory and ushered Potter in, then brushed ahead of him against to lead the way to his workplace. He added with something akin to a snicker, "I hope you ate lunch."

"It's three in the afternoon, Malfoy. I think a better question is whether _you_ have eaten lunch or not."

"Is it really?" He entered his workplace then, popping the door open and striding inside to check the clock. As Potter had said, it was in fact a quarter past three. "Well, going hungry once in a while never hurt anybody, I suppose."

"Maybe not for me, but you're the one who looks like they could snap in half if something pulled too hard." The former Gryffindor entered the room cautiously, eyes flicking to and from Draco's moving form and the endless jars and bottles that lined his shelves.

"A charming image, to be sure. Careful," he warned when Potter raised a hand to take the container of pink stuff off of the shelf. "Most chemicals you see may explode upon contact with heat." A lie, but it would keep Potter's hands away from his things.

"Fair enough." Draco breathed a quiet sigh of relief as Potter's hands dropped back to his sides. The other man apparently felt comfortable enough to take the only chair in the place as well, which Draco had shoved in the corner because he never used it. Silence reigned for a few moments; then Potter added, "Your space isn't bad, all things considered."

He had to turn away to hide the small smile on his face, as he said, "Organization skills aside, I would have thought you'd find it as Weasley thought it to be: cramped, rather ordinary in appearance, and largely smelling of odd things."

"Well, my place is like that too, so I can't really judge." Draco made a noise of assent, shifting around the counter to fetch the jar of ashes from one of his shelves, and Potter prompts, "So, tracking spells?"

"Yes. I have little proof to back this up, but something interesting happened to me the other day." Draco then told him about the message, carefully skipping over the poison-in-the-bottle part; that was a bridge to cross another day. "Tell mister Weasley the initials O.T., if he bothers to care about insight from me."

"Noted. Any reason why you've been tacking the 'mister' in front of Ron's name but not mine?"

Draco paused in the middle of looking up a spell, and then he quickly looked over in Potter's direction. Green eyes were focused calmly on his, and he found that it wasn't very difficult to maintain eye contact, even though he normally did not do so for more than a few seconds at a time.

He paused for a little bit longer, and then he asked hesitantly, "Do I really do that?"

"You haven't noticed? It's always 'mister Weasley' and 'miss Granger', and then there's me. Just 'Potter.'" The Gryffindor's eyes gleamed with amusement at Draco's apparently confusion. "Ron thought you were just trying to curry favor or something the first time you did it."

"If I wanted favor with any Weasley, they would be the first to know," Draco grumbled, and then he asked, reading the text in the tome once more, "I suppose I don't have a good reason for it, if I don't even notice I do it."

"I'm no psychologist, but would it have something to do with how you treated them when you were younger?"

"Reading up on Freud, I see." Draco was momentarily distracted as he meticulously copied the movements in the book with his own wand, mouthing the words that went along with them, and then he answered, "I doubt it. I was a rather remorseful person for a good many years."

Potter snorted, and Draco ignored the sharp sting to his chest it brought with. "You, remorseful?"

"You saw me at the mansion during our seventh year," he replied, and the skull burned onto his arm pulsed once in remembrance (he'd tried to burn it off himself one night to no avail, and he had thus accepted it as a reminder of his past). "I was what you might call emotionally unstable – thinking I'd been right all these years, finding out how wrong I'd been, learning that making things right wasn't easy when you've done so much wrong. So, yes. Remorseful."

"Sounds like you've got a lot on your chest."

"I'm not going to unload it on you, if that's what you're asking." He let out a light laugh, stepping back from the tome and instead taking the infusion of gurdyroot found in Blaise's system and placing it on the counter. "It's not as if anyone is really interested in a Malfoy's story, per se; the scandal surrounding my father and I is much more interesting."

"I can understand that." Harry stared intently at what Draco was doing, and the Slytherin felt slightly self-conscious even though his movements were deft, done with the ease of long practice. "You're making me curious, though."

"So have said many others, and look where I am today." Draco dumped the contents of the vial into a beaker, taking up his wand and letting it hover over the top of the glass. "I don't need your pity, Potter. Asking for more than what I have right now would be getting greedy."

"It's just you've changed so much since the last time I saw you." Potter leaned forward as Draco muttered an incantation over the infusion, taking out another beaker and lifting violet contents from the liquid, leaving colorless liquid behind, and placing it in it. "I mean, we all have, but it's like you're a completely different person. You're under no obligation to tell me everything, but what exactly brought it on?"

He paused, then thought _eh_, and smiled a fleeting, wistful smile. "Faulty beliefs, I suppose. It's even in my name, you know – _mal foie_ is French for the bad faith." He was fairly certain he had butchered the pronunciation, as pushed the two beakers in front of him apart and focused on the one with the clear liquid. "And even so, what's a god to a non-believer?"

"An illusion of safety." The answer was prompt, and it surprised Draco a little bit. "Honestly, after all that's happened, it's hard to believe anything I've done was a good thing, in the long run." Potter was resting his chin on his hand when Draco looked over. "Clearly, Voldemort being dead is a good thing, but at the same time, a lot of people died so I could do it. Sometimes I wonder if it was worth it."

"It was worth it," Draco replied, wincing when a spell caused some of the clear liquid to splash out of the container and fizz on the counter. "We wouldn't be here reminiscing if it were not."

"Mm. That wouldn't bother me all too much."

"I suppose I am not the best company to keep." Draco ignored the cold, sharp hurt searing across his mindscape. He didn't care what Potter thought before, and he never would. "I understand."

"That wasn't what I meant, you should've let me finish." Asserted that he had Draco's attention, Potter went on, "I wouldn't mind being dead. It's hard enough to deal with all the people trying to get interviews and pictures; I don't need their assumptions of what I should be pressuring me as well."

"You've chosen your own path," Draco pointed out, and he takes out yet another beaker as he separates the clear liquid into two clear, separate entities.

Potter tilted his head, a birdlike movement, and agrees uneasily, "Sure, in a sense. But it's kind of like I've served my purpose and everything now that I killed Voldemort, and I feel like I have nothing to do anymore." Potter raised a hand in the air in a sort of dismissive flap. "So what's the point? Ron and Hermione work to make the world a better place; you work to discover new things and link two distinct worlds. What does that make me?"

"Potter, you _are_ the link between the two worlds, remember. And it's precisely because you killed Voldemort that you can't die." Draco didn't look up, and he had to wonder when the discussion had taken a turn to 'let's talk about our poor little feelings', but he wasn't complaining. "Your continued existence gives the wizarding world hope."

"So what?"

"Well, think about it, Potter." _Traces of morphine_. Draco wouldn't have thought that would be a good idea to put into an infusion, unless – ah, they must have been attempting to knock the victim out. "When there isn't a god to look up to, what else can people turn to?"

"A lot of other things," Potter replied wryly, "but I'm assuming your argument is that they look to me because I am this generation's embodiment of hope."

"Precisely. You will always be the pinnacle of hope, Potter. You're in all of the history books, and will remain so for as long as schools are running." Draco shrugged. "If anything, you should feel honored people still want to know what your life is like. It's not often a celebrity remains in the news for as long as you have."

"That's the thing, Malfoy, I don't _want_ to be a celebrity."

Draco wafted the scent of the other clear liquid to his nose, and because he liked to be an idiot on occasion, he took a quick taste to confirm his suspicions. He quickly spat into his hand when the flavor of bitter almonds flooded his mouth, and he wiped his hand on his jeans as he told him, "Then you are being selfish."

"All I've done is help the world, though." Now he sounded like a child who didn't want to eat his vegetables. Draco had to stifle a laugh at the thought, even as he continued petulantly, "Don't you think I deserve to be a little selfish?"

"That is dangerous thinking, Potter. Just because you've done what everyone expected you to do doesn't mean you can fade into obscurity now. You are still young." _Cyanide and morphine_. He wondered what that combination could mean as he now focused on the purple liquid in its beaker. "If anything, you should use your fame for good things."

The Slytherin could almost hear Potter raise an eyebrow, as he said, "And what exactly are you implying?"

Draco quickly backtracked. "Obviously what you've chosen is not a bad thing, but there are more effective ways to give back to society."

"Sure. But what has society ever done for me?" Potter sighed and Draco paused in his work, looking over in what he refused to acknowledge as slight concern. "They've put me in a relationship with Hermione three different times already, not to mention I've been cheating on her with Ginny, and if I told them I worked as a coroner they'd probably say I had an obsession with dead bodies."

"Necromania."

"Yes, thank you, Malfoy. Should I ask how you knew that?"

"You could, but I would likely not give you the truthful answer. To address the tabloids, however," at this point Draco was merely leaning on the counter, all attention on the other man, "Let them talk. As long as you are not blamed for something or thought to have turned your back on the light, you will be fine."

Potter didn't do anything at first, but then he chuckled suddenly, a small little laugh that was both anxious yet pleasantly surprised. "You know, you're the last person I was expecting advice from."

Draco quickly busied himself to avoid Potter's gaze, separating the purple liquid into two different shades of violet. "Yes, well, life is not easy in this day and age."

"Mm. The news about you is never pretty. Haven't heard much on that front, though."

"That would be because I spend most of my days squirreled away in here or at my flat."

"Do they know where you live?"

"If you mean the paparazzi, no, they do not. Fortunately. I had to move again last month to avoid them. Such a hassle."

"Ah. Sorry for, uh. Leading them to you, I guess."

"They already know where my office is, though no one knows how to get to it. I'll simply take the moment to appreciate the Boy Who Lived is apologizing to the Slytherin who tried to make his life miserable when they both were teens."

Potter laughed at that, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms. "We were all stupid back then, weren't we?"

"Let's not go there, please. I have enough embarrassments to live with as it is." Draco succeeded in separating the gurdyroot from the alihotsy as he spoke, placing the two more beakers to the side with the clear liquid to focus on the final one.

"Like your father?"

Draco froze in place and flicked his eyes over to Potter to see if the other had let it slip out by accident; but no, he was looking straight at him, and he expected an honest answer. _Should I give one?_ Potter had told him a lot of things in the past few minutes, so it was the least he could do in return, but at the same time, his father was, well. A sore subject, to say the least.

"Perhaps more of a horror than an embarrassment," Draco said at last, and he shivered reflexively as he remembered his dark days at his own home. He forced the thoughts out of his mind as he hovered his wand over the beaker, but his hand trembled visibly, and with a hiss through gritted teeth he forced it to still. "I would have been like him in the end, if Voldemort hadn't been killed."

"You seemed timid, though. And your mother – "

"It was either did as he said or die by his hand," Draco interrupted, steering the conversation away from Narcissa with the ease of long practice. "And being killed by Voldemort was never merciful, Potter."

"Your mother, though. She – "

"No." It came out sharper than he meant, and he dialed the animosity back a bit as he said more calmly, "I am not discussing my mother with you. She has been through enough, and there is no need for me to tell that story to you of all people."

Potter merely nodded; he understood, which made sense, Draco reflected, seeing as his mother died when he was a baby. Or, wait, no, that didn't make much sense at all – regardless, Draco returned his attention to the violet liquid, mouth a thin line, knuckles white around the handle of his wand. Silence settled, but Draco felt a pair of eyes watching his every move. Then:

"You should call me Harry, I think," Potter said out of nowhere. Draco looked up, eyes flat, demanding explanation for the sudden statement, and Potter explained, "We're going to be working with each other for a while, Malfoy, and we should put what happened back at Hogwarts behind us."

There was a long silence.

"Fine," Draco said at last, putting down his equipment and walking over to Potter, holding out his hand. "You may call me Draco. But we are not getting too friendly, understood."

"Clear as crystal, Draco," Harry replied, taking his hand and shaking once, and Draco ignored the way his name and Harry's hand sent a chill up his spine as he turned went back to work.

* * *

Draco got to know Harry Potter very well that day.

For instance, the Chosen One was actually rather fond of the smell of most chemicals, muggle or not, and he could correctly identify common ones with almost perfect accuracy. He could also describe what they did to the human system, which Draco either asserted or contradicted given his own knowledge. In the end, the list was particularly morbid.

For another, all of Harry's parental figures were dead, absent, or not where he needed them, which meant he had a tendency to latch onto people who actually cared about him. This apparently included Draco, and they ended up talking about a lot of things spanning from gossip to discussion of the mysterious O.T., for which Harry took him at his word.

"So you're trying to track the killer down using the ashes, which is why you have the book?"

"Precisely. Normally I would not have gone to such lengths, but Blaise was my friend." He flipped through the pages calmly, having already found the one he intended to use but musing that perhaps he could find a better one. "I intend to get my revenge."

"Be careful. That sort of thinking can get you killed."

"I suppose you would know."

"Believe me, I do. Sixth year at Hogwards was interesting. I was completely obsessed with – um. Never mind, now that I think about it, you're definitely not the person to tell."

"You hurt me, Harry." The name is foreign on his tongue, and he takes a moment to reflect on how it feels. "How dare you not tell me every last one of your secrets."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Obviously. You have no reason to tell me anything, clearly." He paused, feeling something of the magical variety fighting for attention in his mind. "Hm. Something wants to come in. Just a moment."

"Some_thing_?" Harry asked, as Draco strode to the door.

"Not a person. I set up wards after mister Weasley interrupted – you're right, I do say mister before his name, odd – in any case, after Weasley interrupted my work the other day." Draco put his hand on the knob and opened the door, looking down to see a Patronus in the form of a terrier skip inside past his legs. "Is that Weasley's?"

"Yeah. A galleon says there's another person dead – "

The Patronus spoke. "Harry, wherever you are, get back here. Someone left a message in the lab, along with a dead body as a present."

"He's going to blame me for that," Draco said with a sigh as the Patronus dissipated, reaching under his counter and taking out thin plastic wrap, something he'd recently discovered in a muggle store. He proceeded to cover each individual beaker before picking up the jar of ashes. It wasn't as though it wouldn't fit into his coat, but it was nevertheless somewhat bulky, and he frowned thoughtfully at it. "I wonder if I should take this with me."

"Give it here."

Draco handed it off without a word, though he couldn't say why, and Harry muttered something and passed his wand over it. The jar shrunk in his palm and soon the Gryffindor was offering a glass container the size of his thumb back to him, which Draco pocketed before quickly organizing the beakers on his counter into a pentagon.

Harry waited by the door for a bit before asking, "What are you doing?"

"Catering to my somewhat-obsessive desire to keep things organized." Finished, Draco turned to him and said, "Shall we be off?"

"Yeah. After you."

Draco had to resist the urge to laugh when Harry held the door open for him, but managed to keep from commenting on it outright, even as he grew warm on the inside from keeping it in.

* * *

Draco immediately fell silent when he entered Harry's workspace – not because of the body, but because both Granger and Weasley were there and they expected him to act a certain way. He wasn't about to deny them the only thing they thought they knew, yet.

Harry, meanwhile, made a beeline for the body, and Draco could detect a sense of eagerness as the man slipped his hands into latex gloves and began to poke and prod. He followed more slowly, brushing past Weasley and giving Granger a berth, and stopped when he was a foot away from the corpse.

"Internal injuries," Harry says, running his hand over the woman's stomach. "Maybe blood poisoning."

"Throat and lungs are swollen," Draco said with a sideways glance over at Weasley and Granger. When they didn't show any inclination to stop him, he went back to looking and not touching. "Asphyxia, do you figure?"

"Can't know which killed them until later. Ah, bubotuber on the calf, you can see all four layers of the skin."

Draco went to the legs to take a peek and immediately regretted it, though he forced himself to continue examining. "Just on that calf, it seems. And the heel."

"Do you think that he maybe put bubotuber on the calf so he could – "

" – put some sort of poison that way, fair point, and just prior to death, or perhaps earlier – "

" – give the green stuff for them to swallow to disguise it as their death, seems a thing he would do."

Hypothesis made, Draco and Harry nodded at each other and Draco stepped back as Harry then turned to Weasley. "What was the message?"

"You're in a good mood," Granger commented as she handed over a letter. The other two gathered around, and Draco hovered uncertainly nearby, unsure of whether he should include himself or not; in the end he needn't have worried, as Harry then flipped the letter round so he could view it.

"Look familiar?" he asked, eyebrow raised, and Draco came closer, leaning down to observe it, as Harry said, "Signed by an O.T. again. Looks like you weren't lying."

"Again, Harry, have I ever lied – "

"Lighten up, Draco, I was joking." Neither Weasley nor Granger missed the first-name basis the two were using, but neither commented outright, either. "I guess this makes him definitely responsible."

"Mm." Draco read the letter:

_Mr. Draco L. Malfoy, Mr. Ronald B. Weasley, Ms. Hermione J. Granger, and of course Mr. Harry J. Potter,_

_I trust this letter finds you in good health. The gift I have presented should be a worthy challenge to you – poisons are elegant and intricate, and even with your meticulous chemist at your side, I find it hard to believe you'll know exactly what it is._

_Do take care. I look forward to further dealings in the future._

_- OT_

"Ominous," Draco remarked, straightening up, and Harry grimaced.

"We'll see. You want to get started on that tracking thing or yours?"

"I suppose. I'll need that letter as well." Harry rolled it up and Draco accepted it, slipping it into his pocket while taking out both his wand and the jar of ashes. Harry got the message and did something to the jar, and it grew to its normal size in his palm as the Slytherin said, "Weasley, if you're interested, you're free to join. As are you, miss Granger."

"I have no idea what you're both talking about," Weasley replied.

"Just go with him, Ron. He'll explain along the way."

"I might."

Harry glared. "You _will_."

"Fine, I will." Draco unscrewed the lid of the jar and carefully pressed the tip of his wand to the ashes, lifting it out a few moments later and murmuring the proper incantation and movements. Almost immediately a hazy, colorful yet colorless trail appeared, most likely only in his eyes, and he knew immediately he was to follow it. "Well, Weasley?"

"I hope you know what you're doing, Harry," Weasley called back as he obligingly walked after him, and Draco merely smiled as he went out the door and up the stairs.

* * *

"What happened between the two of you?"

Harry shrugged, expression neutral, as he pulled on a pair of gloves and began to assemble the necessary tools. "I ran into him at the Ministry while I was running from reporters, and he agreed to hide me in his lab."

Hermione raised an eyebrow and pressed, "And?"

"We talked."

"And?"

"That's all we did, Hermione. We talked while he separated the different poisons and liquids from the original infusion of gurdyroot, and then Ron's Patronus came knocking." _Literally_.

"You're calling him _Draco_."

"You don't seem all that surprised."

"That's because I'm not, but Ron is. I mean, Draco calling you Harry? That's pretty significant."

"Wow. It's like I've made friends with him or something."

"No," Hermione said with a shake of her head, and she corrected, "It's more like he's let you become his friend."

"Really."

"Malfoy is cautious, Harry, and to let someone as famous as you get into contact with him is a big risk he's seemingly willing to take. Have you read some of the lies the paparazzi spread about him?"

"Some. It never really concerned me that much before now."

"They're bad, Harry. Some say he is going to be the next Voldemort, but we both know how unlikely that would be."

"Point taken, but why tell me this?"

She gave him a look that said quite clearly _you're hopeless_. "Just be careful, Harry. Don't do anything rash unless you're certain you're in privacy."

He raised his eyebrows. "Sounds like you're implying something."

"I would never," she said with a wry smile, and then she told him, "I'll be going now. Call me back here when you finish."

"Of course. See you later, Hermione."

"Bye, Harry."

* * *

The tracking spell had led to him to a sort of muggle hotel, and the only way to get inside was to be buzzed in.

"I knew you'd come in handy, Weasley," Draco said, turning to the redhead. Both men had remained largely silent for the whole trek, and his voice rang out like a cannon in the silence. "Get us in, if you please."

"Malfoy, I'm an private eye, not the police. I can't just go into a building by flashing my ID and saying 'we're here to investigate'."

"We're going to get in, of course, but I was merely wondering if you would have liked to do it legally or illegally. I see you've made your choice." Draco turned to the door, taking his wand out and slipping it into his sleeve so it was almost invisible as he pointed it at the door. "_Alohomora._"

When he did enter, Weasley was only a few seconds behind, and Draco had to wonder how often the other had broken the law himself as they wandered through the corridor, up the stairs, through the hall. The trail led directly into room 413, and Draco stopped in front of it, wand still hidden in the palm of his hand.

"I believe breaking and entering is more up your alley, mister Weasley," Draco said, and then he grimaced at the accidental slip of the honorific.

"That's saying something I don't like too much, Malfoy." Nevertheless, Weasley took out his own wand, hiding it with his hand as he used the unlocking charm himself. He pushed the door opened, facing inside, and as an all-too-familiar scent washed up against them, he added, "I don't enforce the laws, but I still heed them."

"Clearly," Draco said, and the two fanned out to look around the empty room. The trail he could see with his mind's eye pooled hazily on top of the desk in the room, and he approached it cautiously as Weasley went to check out the bathroom. There was another note present on the wood, and he quickly went to read it.

_Mr. Draco L. Malfoy and Mr. Ronald B. Weasley,_

_I'm afraid you will have to try harder than that. And while you are here, who knows what is happening around the city? _

_- OT_

"Weasley, over here."

"Gimme a sec, Malfoy, there's something in here you might want to check yourself." The redhead's voice was strained.

"Switch places, then, come on."

When Weasley exited the bathroom, his eyes were wide and unseeing, and Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in alarm. The smell had been enough to put him on alert, and now he asked, "What happened?"

"Harry is not going to be happy" was Weasley's response, and when Draco padded to the bathroom door and peered inside, the sickly sweet scent of blood barraged his nostrils even further. The shower curtain had been pulled aside, likely by Weasley, to reveal a body, and as he watched, the hand braced over the bathtub's wall slid off and to the corpse's side. Blood was splattered in a wide arc across the shower wall, and Draco's eyes flicked about, generating an idea of what happened, and he approached the body with his wand extended.

"Poor thing," he murmured, reaching out to close the woman's eyes, and he leaned over to see that her insides were fortunately where they were supposed to be, at least in front view. He didn't dare try to peer at her back, where a stream of blood flowed to the drain. She hadn't been killed very long ago, and he observed the strange shape of her throat, noting the presence of the green glowy stuff.

_I _really _need a better name for that_, he thought as he tentatively stepped out, noting with distaste that he left bloody shoeprints on the carpet. Weasley had already cast his Patronus and sent it on its way, so it appeared, and while he didn't look inclined to speak, Draco did it for him.

"Around our age, I would say, and professionally dressed, so likely a businessperson. Killed within the hour, which would mean the killer is not too far off, if you're inclined to pursue him." Weasley didn't respond, so Draco pressed, "It is likely O.T. did not even have time to administer any sort of poison and resorted to a spell to kill her, given her facial expression. Also – "

"Malfoy, shut up." His tone was cold and said that there would be dire consequences if he did not listen. Draco bobbed his head and obediently fell silent. Clearly something had rattled the redhead, and he was willing to hazard a guess that it had to do with the victim.

The letter was still flat on the table, and Draco went over to it and picked it up, flipping it to the back to check for a post-script. There wasn't one. He placed in flat on the desk again and cast the tracking charm he'd used on the ashes, to no avail; the letter had been written in this very room and left where it was. He tried it on the letter Harry had gifted to him with the same result.

Maybe there was something around the room O.T. had left behind that he could use? He looked around, noting the pristinely-set bed, the television, a wardrobe, a dresser. He tried the last two, finding only hangers in the former and empty space in the latter, and then continued to prowl around the room, feeling very much the teenage detective looking for clues.

He did this for long enough, lifting things to look under them, pulling all of the drawers open and leaving them open, even removing the covers on the bed, that by the time Granger arrived, the place was essentially a wreck. His search had turned up nothing except a black ballpoint pen, which he had tucked into his pocket for later investigation.

As soon as Weasley had opened the door for her, Granger entered with her brow furrowed, and she asked, "What happened here?"

"Tornado Draco."

"That was clever, I'll admit," Draco said, twirling the pen between his fingers, observing it this way and that. "You'll want to go to the bathroom, miss Granger, and I would brace myself were I you."

"Yeah, the smell kind of gave it away." She grimaced, gesturing for Weasley to follow her as she went towards the door. Draco watched the two of them with something close to admiration, for the way they knew each other was so familiar that they merely nodded at each other and set about to do independent tasks with the body. He had never been that close to anybody.

_Probably more work than it's worth_, he thought to himself with a nod, and then he called out, "I'll be going, then – I need to look into this pen."

"Oh my god," he heard Granger say, his statement apparently ignored. "Isn't this _Cho_?"

"That's what I thought too, but Malfoy didn't recognize her so I wasn't sure."

Draco quickly went through some mental files, attempting to locate the name Cho in his mind; soon enough he had linked the name to _Chang_, but other than that she had been a Ravenclaw, he had nothing to go on. Nevertheless, he kept the name in mind, as he repeated, "I'll be going now."

"Yeah, whatever," Weasley replied, but Granger spoke up.

"Oh, Malfoy, do me a favor and tell Harry I won't be able to come for the next few hours." He looked over, and she poked her head out of the bathroom as she added, a tired smile on her face, "For obvious reasons."

He nodded. "Of course. Good day, Weasley, miss Granger."

As he left through the door, slipping through the halls quietly and cautiously, he wondered for the first time how his father would feel about his son being on speaking terms with the enemies of his former cause. Certainly his mother wouldn't care either way, as she would be pleased he had made new friends in the first place; but his father, who had abandoned both him and her and had ended up in jail, was a different story entirely.

_I suppose it's a good thing he isn't my father anymore,_ Draco reflected, but his steps still dragged slightly as he exited the building and set off to the hospital.

* * *

He knocked on the door a few times – a force of habit, really – and, upon receiving a muffled sound of some sort, he went inside. Harry didn't even look up from the current project, leaning over as he carefully picked apart skin and muscle to observe what was inside the body, and Draco meanwhile kept his gaze pointedly elsewhere.

"Oh." Harry's voice was slightly stifled by the facemask he was wearing. "I was expecting Hermione."

"I am afraid you'll have to put up with me, then. She asked me to tell you that she will not be able to return for a few hours."

He grunted in acknowledgement, and then asked, "You look pale. Did something happen?"

"I am literally one of the palest people you have likely ever met and you haven't looked up since I've entered the room."

"You're stalling. Someone died."

Draco then remembered who Cho Chang was, when Harry finally did cast his green eyes upward and met his; the Gryffindor had dated her for a bit during fourth year or something, or was it third? His schooldays felt like ages ago, back when the war wasn't so looming, back when his primary concern was getting attention.

Harry was still waiting for a response, and Draco was at a loss. Tell him, don't tell him?

"You okay there, Draco?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm – fine. Apologies." _Tell him_, his mind urged, and he decided _not yet_. "In any case, yes, someone else has died. Miss Granger is determining how to move the body at the moment, I believe, with Weasley's help."

"Given your pause there, I'm assuming it's either someone you know or someone Ron or Hermione did."

It took Draco only a few seconds to garner his courage to speak. The Slytherin was prepared to bolt the minute he said it, and he knew his body language said as such, for Harry began to lean forward again, eyes narrowing.

"Cho Chang," Draco said at last, already turning to the door. "From what I understand, brutally murdered, but just before death, forced to swallow an assortment of poisons and chemicals."

Harry had stopped moving, and he repeated, "Cho?"

"I am sorry."

"No need, not your fault." Harry stood up straight and leaned back, neck craning so he was looking at the ceiling. "God, why Cho? I haven't been in contact with her for years, so why kill her? It doesn't make sense…"

Draco waited for some emotional outburst, inching towards the door, but there wasn't one; instead Harry just sighed and went back to work, scalpel in hand, and he got the sense that something was missing.

"I expected more of a reaction," Draco admitted at last.

"I see lots of dead bodies," Harry replied, somewhat absently, and he made a harsh motion that cut a tendon. He let out a growl of frustration, and Draco decided that her death affected him more than he was letting on, as he said, "I've seen lots of my friends die. Like I said earlier, you get numb after a while."

"But I thought – "

"I dated her _years_ before I killed the strongest dark wizard of all time, remember, and ever since he died, I haven't been quite right in the head. You of all people would understand."

Draco breathed in quietly through his nose, exhaled just as silently through his mouth, and then said, "I do." And he did. No one was really _good_ in times of peace; consequently, no one was really _bad_, either. Both points were ones that could be argued, but war was what drove people, good or bad, to commit the atrocities everyone remembered but never spoke of. And after committing those atrocities, or after witnessing them, or after being the victim of them, who could become a normal citizen of a peaceful world afterwards?

The two stood in silence for a while.

Harry sighed again and pushed back from the table, reaching up to wipe his forehead but stopping halfway upon seeing the blood coating his fingers. "Stay with me?" he asked Draco out of nowhere, and the Slytherin blinked uncomprehendingly.

"Would I not be one of the last people you'd want to keep you company?"

"You're quiet. It's nice having someone else alive in the room. Reminds me that I am, too."

Draco bit his lip. "Do you sometimes forget?"

"When I get cold and I don't have a body to examine, sometimes I lie on the table just to see what it's like," Harry replied, matter-of-factly.

Draco found a chair and pulled up to the side of the room, where a desk covered in neat stacks of papers sat. He extracted the pen from his pocket, placed it on the only empty space of the table, and turned back to tell Harry, "That is messed up, Harry, and coming from me that should hold some significance."

Harry laughed, and it's a sad sound. "You wouldn't be the first to think so."

"I can imagine." He turned back to the pen and took out his wand. "Carry on, then. I'll try to be quiet."

"Mm." He could hear distinct clicking and metallic taps as Harry set back to work. "Thanks for this."

"Not a problem. Remaining silent is one of my fortes."

"I meant staying in what is basically a morgue with the guy you used to hate."

"Oh." _I don't think I ever _hated _you. I was more jealous than anything._ "Also not a problem. Anything is infinitely better than the Malfoy Mansion during the war."

Harry hummed in agreement. "I bet."

The conversation dwindled then, and Draco returned his full attention to the pen and his wand, whispering words under his breath. Soon enough he identified it as a hotel pen, and, upon comparing it to the ink on the letter from the room, it had been used on the parchment. Perhaps if he could modify the tracking spell to locate the last user of it?

He would have to ask Granger for help on that one, certainly; spells with such intricacies had never been his specialty, especially so after adopting muggle methods to discern chemicals and other liquids from each other. Though given the current circumstances, it seemed asking for her expertise would have to wait. And he had left the book in his office.

Wait. _Shit_. He definitely should not have left that book in his office. O.T. had already proven they could get into that place without any trouble. Even with the wards, it was entirely possible he'd be able to sneak his way inside, and by the time Draco Apparated there and rushed in, they would be gone. _Well_, he said to himself, _nothing I can do about it now._ He knew the book's title, in any case – he could find another copy. And the librarian, while intimidating, didn't scare him all that much.

Now then. What else could he do? The few things he could be actively experimenting with rested quietly in his workspace. He hated idleness, when there were things he could be doing at any rate, and so he began to dig around in the pockets of his coat, taking out bottles and vials of chemicals he'd forgotten he had.

He didn't even hear Harry come up behind him, as he organized the chemicals into neat rows and columns, dividing them not by color but by use and effect, but then there was a hand in his peripheral vision and a new vial was set onto the limited space of the counter.

"Filtered this out of the bloodstream," Harry said from above and behind him, and Draco reached out to take the vial. Some blood of course swirled in the contents, and he unstopped the container and pulled an empty one from his pocket as Harry added, "There's more in the stomach, but I figured you wouldn't need too much."

"Let's hope so," Draco murmured, reciting a quick charm and pulling the blood away from the liquid within. This he poured into the clean vial, for lack of a better place to put it, and left behind a thin brown liquid with a viscosity akin to oil. He sniffed it carefully. "Peppermint, as to avoid unwelcome side effects – clever yet pointless. Odd. Perhaps Valerian sprigs to induce sleepiness as well – also clever, yet equally pointless."

"You can tell by scent?"

"Valerian roots and sprigs have a distinct smell, though others tend to disagree with me on that. Peppermint, of course, is something anyone with sense can recognize." Draco shrugged and tilted his head back to look up at Harry. "In addition, Valerian sprigs are often used in sedatives, i.e. sleeping draughts."

"How much about potion ingredients do you know?" Harry sounded impressed, though his facial expression yielded only a raised eyebrow.

Draco merely smirked and leaned forward again. "Enough to get me by. Why, feeling envious?"

"Just a bit. I haven't really made a potion in years, to be honeset. Muggle medical advances have outpaced those of wizards in some areas."

"For once I agree with you. Have you ever owned a cell phone?"

Harry snorted at that, and Draco turned around in his chair so he was facing him. "Of course I do. I grew up with muggles, remember. Hermione has one, too."

"Well," Draco said with raised eyebrows. "Excuse me for having wizards as parents. Particularly my father, who was scornful of muggles and anything that involved them."

"Wait, you don't have one?"

"There is a reason Weasley and I largely use Patronus to communicate. Pureblooded families tend to stick to the old ways." Draco rested his arms on the back of the chair and put his chin on top of them. "And I am not exactly rolling in money, as you might recall. Phone plans are complex and expensive."

"And you can't really change wizard currency into pounds all that easily," Harry agreed. He had exchanged his latex gloves for a fresh pair, and he leaned over the body again and set back to work. "You might want to consider it, though. You can take videos and pictures and all sorts of things on the iPhone."

"Duly noted, but don't expect me to act on it soon. May I borrow about five beakers?"

"Yeah, sure. In the left cupboard, no, the other one."

Draco paused at the right door and opened it up to reveal a surprising number of neat rows of small beakers, perhaps a little smaller than he would have preferred, and he took out a few and set them on the desk. "What do you even need these for?"

"I don't actually know, Hermione brought them in a few days ago for whatever reason. Feel free to break them if you want – Ron's been doing it as a stress reliever."

"Tempting, but I'll pass." He spent a few more seconds staring intently at the rather ridiculous number of beakers before closing the cupboard and sitting at the desk again. "_Specialis Revelio_," he told the brown liquid, and as the spell settled into the chemical, the names of the ingredients within began to manifest in his mind.

As he had guessed, Valerian sprigs and peppermint. There was also cyanide, which seemed to be something of a recurring theme. Traces of morphine, likely because the contents had been made in the same container as other chemicals – and his eyebrows went up as the charm informed him of the presence of MDMA. O.T. was fond of using muggle recreational drugs, so it seemed.

He had to wonder what the combination of the solution would do. A few sips of this would cause irreversible damage to the brain, most likely, and this amount by itself would be disastrous. There were likely different causes of death, but who knows, this might have been ultimately responsible. Why cyanide, though?

Apparently he had voiced that thought aloud, as Harry replied absently, "Why _not_ cyanide?" Clearly his thoughts were elsewhere, though perhaps that was the better question, and Draco pursed his lips as he looked at the chemical in front of him.

Why do anything, really? There didn't seem to be a definite pattern to any of the killings: O.T. went after muggles, wizards, witches, and everyone in between. Race wasn't a factor, nor was gender, nor occupations, nor socio-economic level – it was as if all of it was random. Either O.T. wasn't making any mistakes, or he was making every single mistake he could and he didn't care either way.

Draco supposed Weasley had already considered all of this, so he remained silent and didn't voice his thoughts to Harry. The other man already had enough to do as it was, and so Draco returned his attention the line of chemicals from his pockets in front of him, like soldiers standing at a salute. Since he didn't have anything better to do at the moment, he began to peruse them, pocketing the ones he could remember how he obtained, pushing those he could not to the side.

In the end, there were only five vials left, out of the original sixteen, which wasn't terrible but wasn't excellent, either. A 68.9% success rate would only take him so far, and he took the five and arranged them in a neat row in front of him, ducking his head to get a better look at them.

The first contained a solution that was a deep magenta in color and looked like water that had been dyed – likely from his earlier days, when he had been experimenting with neutralizing acids with bases. He couldn't remember what agent he had used in order to identify color, but it didn't seem as if it mattered much in the long run, as the liquid itself was useless to him in its current form.

He nevertheless pocketed the vial. He had always been something of a hoarder, and besides, he might have the opportunity to dump the container's contents on someone.

The next vial had something solid and brown in it, and, after shaking it and still being unsure of what it was, he pulled out the cork holding it shut with a _pop_ and wafted the smell to his nose. He made a face as he did so, recognizing the distinctive scent of buckwheat honey almost immediately, and closed off the vial and pocketed that as well. He'd forgotten he'd had the honey, and though he couldn't remember why he had it, it didn't seem important enough to investigate further.

The third vial seemed interesting. He left it alone and instead went to the fourth, which he suspected contained powdered carbon for whatever reason. His suspicions were confirmed upon casting the spell Granger had taught him, and he put that one into a pocket as well before going to the fifth. That vial ended up containing hydrofluoric acid, which he also stowed away in case the opportunity to use it ever arose.

He was returning his attention to the third vial when the clicking and moving behind him abruptly stopped, snapping him out of his reverie. When he snuck a glance at Harry, he saw that he had stopped moving and had taken a step back from the corpse he'd been examining.

"What is it?" he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral. He received no response, and though he turned around in his chair in full, he did not quite dare stand up. The other man looked more frightened than anything, and this was enough for him to exercise complete caution. "Harry?"

Saying his name seemed to wake him up somehow, and he looked over at Draco, expression blank. "It's nothing," he said in a voice that screamed the exact opposite. "Sorry. I was just startled."

"I'm sure." The Slytherin watched for a bit longer, unsure of how to approach the situation. He wasn't Harry's friend – that is, he doubted Harry considered him one, and he himself still thought of them as acquaintances – and he had been terrible at soothing people in the first place. Likely any attempt of him to reassure him would be taken poorly.

But then what else was he supposed to do? He couldn't just sit there and let Harry work things out on his own. That would be crueler than trying to be nice. Wouldn't it?

In the end, though, he did nothing, because that was one of Draco's many talents: procrastinating. Waiting. Testing the waters, to make sure they weren't shark-infested, before he made a move. If he made any move, which he didn't besides turn his attention back to the third vial once more. It took him a few moments, but he could recognize polyjuice potion when he saw it. He honestly could not remember why he had it or whether it would still work, but it could come in handy, so he tucked it into a breast pocket.

Then he tapped his fingers idly on the counter until eventually Harry spoke, after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence in which Draco didn't know what to say. "Do you know of anything that would cause an autoimmune reaction?"

Draco grimaced; autoimmune diseases were not something to be taken lightly. More curious was to how to make a seemingly healthy person show symptoms of having it. "Off the top of my head, no, apologies. What's happened?"

"How about not cutting someone open but still having impossible things on the inside?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

Harry beckoned him over, and Draco stood, steeling his nerves as he took tiny steps forward, still looking away. The Gryffindor shuffled to the side and had Draco take his place, where he then said, "Look."

"I am really not all that good with dealing with excessive amounts of blood – "

"Just do it."

Draco sniffed, said, "Well, if you ask so nicely," and then tilted his head down to view the intestines of the poor body in front of him.

When he got over the initial wave of nausea from the blood and guts and other general whatnot, his own running through his veins ran cold. Right there, inside that body that had not been cut open nor seemingly tampered with beyond death when it had first arrived, written in black, were words.

And they read _Ginevra Weasley is next._

* * *

**More intrigue.**

**A thank you to the influx of followers and favorites following the posting of the second chapter. I also very much appreciate my reviewers - your kind messages have all been read and smiled at. Thank you for taking time out of your busy day of reading fic to leave me a few encouraging words.**

**Moving on: my sister, for whom this fic is for, continues to rib on me for seemingly significant things that happen in previous chapters that consequently fail to come up at later times. Readers, I ask that you trust me to remember those significant moments, as they will be important later on - of this I can assure you.**

**Lastly, you might have noticed that this fic posts on a biweekly schedule. I am not sure if the next chapter will be up by June 15th, but if all goes well, expect an update then.**


	4. carbon argon sodium germanium

**As a Public Service Announcement, I would like you all to know that this chapter has been minimally edited. You have been warned.**

**I have not, do not, and will never own Harry Potter or its characters.**

* * *

"Ron is _not_ going to like this."

"Doesn't take a genius to realize that. I am going to vacate the premises when he returns."

"And leave me alone with him panicking?"

"He's your headache, not mine." _I don't have any, because I'm always alone. _"I do my job, you do yours."

"Good thing one of us knows when to strategically retreat."

"I'm not stupid," Draco replied matter-of-factly, causing Harry to snort. "Weasley is annoying enough as he is; I do not want to find out how annoying he gets when he is freaking out."

"Good choice," Harry said. They both fell silent as they regarded the corpse lying motionlessly in front of them, and a few moments passed before he spoke again. "I suppose I should keep working."

"Probably." Draco flicked his eyes over the words one last time – they almost appeared to be stitched directly into the intestines themselves, though Draco wasn't inclined to test that particular hypothesis – before turning around to sit back down at the counter where he'd been working. He remained still there for a few moments, thinking, looking at the vials in front of him without seeing.

Then he stood back up, turned back around, and said, "It doesn't make sense."

"It really doesn't," Harry agreed uneasily. He looked increasingly perturbed as he looked over at the body. "How did they get the writing into this person's body without – "

"Not that. Well, that too," he allowed as Harry gave him a look, "But I meant something else." Draco paused and pondered his next words before speaking again. "O.T. did not target people you knew at first, but then suddenly he went after one of my friends and one of your friends."

"He knows who I am, so that kind of makes sense. What's your point?"

"My point is that he hasn't gone for people who were extremely close to us, however much I hate admitting I never was good friends with Blaise." Draco tapped his chin with a slim finger. "Yet now he feels the need to take one of Weasley's siblings."

Harry's movements stopped as he said this, continuing again a moment later. "So he didn't target people really close to us right away. Fine. What are you getting at?"

At this point Draco shrugged. "I am really not sure, but it is my guess that the pattern in these killings is that there isn't one. The killer enjoys killing just because he can."

"There's a name for that, isn't there." Harry's green eyes glinted in amusement as he added, "I can tell you know it."

"Indeed. Ktenology," the Slytherin answered promptly, but then wavered and amended, "Er. Well, that's the science of putting people to death. I'm not sure if that is the same thing in these circumstances."

"You're suggesting the sole reason this O.T. is killing people we know is for… fun?" Harry pursed his lips. "Or because he's testing out different chemicals, I suppose."

"It could be a different reason, and I am not a professional in these matters by any means, but at the same time," Draco said, "It makes enough sense to warrant further investigation."

Harry nodded in assent, and then asked, "But why bother us?"

"Why kill people we know?" Draco echoed, and then he said, curling the words up at the end, "Maybe because we're getting in his way?"

"So to get us _out_ of his way, he decides to take out Ginny, which will in theory put the three of us out of the picture." Harry pursed his lips. "But then that leaves you, doesn't it?"

"Blaise was one of the people I was closest to," Draco said, and he crossed his fingers, half-hoping it was true, half-dreading the lie. "He likely believes I am similarly incapacitated. I'm surprised he managed to figure out who to target." As he said this, realization hit him like a hammer, and he looked over at Harry at the same time as the other did at him. "And that means there's – "

" – someone on the inside," Harry agreed, and Draco frowned at the twinge of nervousness in his chest. "Someone who's close to us, or sees us often, or knows us well."

"Someone at the Ministry?"

"Seems most likely. But they could be here, too. At the hospital."

"I thought you kept to yourself."

"So did I, but then I met you."

Draco raised an eyebrow, refusing to acknowledge the part of him that was saying snidely _that was an incredibly sappy and direct pick-up line_. "Which means what, exactly?"

"You've got hiding down to a science," Harry said with a shrug and a wry smile. Draco accepted the pseudo-compliment with a nod, as the Gryffindor continued, "I've let more slip about myself in one interview than you have in all of the years since the war. You've seen me in _The_ _Daily Prophet._"

"Who hasn't, let's be honest." Out of curiosity, Draco asked, "Have you seen me in the paper?"

"No. I haven't been looking. I hate looking at myself in the journals."

"Fair enough." It was something a relief to know that someone didn't read what they wrote about him, and he felt repulsed even thinking about an article he had skimmed once, claiming that he was the next Dark Lord who had already gathered his Slytherin 'minions'. "Returning to the issue here, though. Who could it be?"

"It could be anybody. Except us both, I guess." Harry reached up to scratch the back of his neck, and stopped upon seeing the blood on his fingers – not the first time that had happened, and, Draco mused, likely not to be the last. "Ron's not clever enough to pull this off, and there's absolutely no way it could be Hermione."

"I find it odd that you are doubting your own friends, as well as implying one of them is incapable of superior planning." Privately Draco felt warm that Harry didn't suspect him at all, but he didn't voice the thought aloud. "I thought you trusted them to the end of the world."

"I do. But if there's one thing I've learned working for a private eye, it's that you question everyone." His tone became bleak. "By now that's become a habit, because who knows who will befriend you just to stab you in the back?"

"I'm assuming you're implying that fame is awful."

Harry let out a bitter laugh. "You would know."

"Yes." Draco fell silent, and then agreed, "I suppose I would."

* * *

Despite his earlier claim otherwise, Draco found himself working peaceably in Harry's workplace when Weasley and Granger found their way inside. He pointedly kept his attention to the chemicals in front of him as the redhead saw the writing in the corpse, and before the other man exploded he attempted to make a smooth escape, slipping his vials into his pocket and out of the room.

His attempt to do so failed dramatically when the Gryffindor instead quite literally pounced, sending him, and all of the glass in his pockets, to the ground. He swore up and down when he heard cracking but didn't bother resisting as Weasley held him captive, instead hoping that nothing was leaking and/or mixing. He'd rather not have explosives in his coat.

"Ron, you're being unreasonable." Granger's voice floated into his ears, as Draco lay quietly on his stomach, head sideways on the cold tiles that had been covered in blood and guts. Weasley snarled something that Draco didn't quite catch, and Granger responded, tone sharp with disapproval, "Get off of him. Your gut instinct means nothing when there's no proof."

"That's a lie, do you know how often acting on a hunch leads to – "

"_Ron_." Weasley immediately rolled off of him when Harry snapped out his name, and Draco reflected upon the power Harry still held as he lay still for a few moments, just to make sure he wasn't about to be tackled again. "Get over it already."

"So many things point to him!" Draco slowly pushed himself up and then carefully turned so he was sitting on the floor, hands braced behind him. He took a few moments like this before gently sitting up, carefully patting his pockets for any damage, as the redhead continued hotly, "If anyone knows how to do this, it would be him!"

"You're overreacting – "

"_This is about my sister!_" Weasley bellowed, and Draco pressed his lips into a thin line.

"We've already had almost a dozen people die, and it's just _now_ you're getting righteous about this?" Harry raised a hand when his friend whirled on him, mouth open to retort, and said coldly, "Pull yourself together, Ron. We can't go charging around and getting on the case of the first people we suspect."

"Oh, yeah? I seem to remember you did that sixth year!"

"That was school," Harry said tightly, and Draco got to his feet, slipping one foot back silently in a small step back towards the door. "That was Hogwarts. This is different."

"Really? I don't think it is." Granger started to move forward as Draco continued to inch back, and Weasley looked positively devious – and angry – as he snarled, "You seemed pretty focused on busting a certain _someone's_ ass."

"Ron, can we please not talk about this right now – "

"Well, he's here right now so it's as good a time as any, isn't it?" Here Weasley pointed to Draco, to which the Slytherin stopped midstep, hovering in slight confusion but mostly trepidation. The redhead was sneering now, breathing hard, hand quivering as he kept it in the Slytherin's direction, and Draco knew he was close to some sort of panic attack. "'Course, you were right in the end, but you spent so much time trying to prove it and got into so much goddamn trouble – "

"Ron, please." Granger's arm caught Weasley's, though her touch did nothing to calm the redhead's fury. Draco began the slow journey back to the door again, one miniscule step at a time. "Like Harry said, that was years ago. We really don't – "

"Oh, so now you're against me too? Bloody perfect! Now there's no way we're going to catch the criminal, because he's _leaving_ the room!" Draco again froze in place, turning his head to meet Weasley's furious gaze. "Yeah, that's right, I'm talking to you, Malfoy. Did you know in sixth year, Harry – "

"Ron – "

" – was totally obsessed, I mean _obsessed_, with proving that you were a – "

Harry's voice was more pained than anything, as he tried again, "_Ron_ – "

" – Death Eater, and he spent hours following you and trying to figure out what you were doing?"

The silence that followed was deafening, and Draco slowly turned in place to face the three of them. Harry met his eyes fearlessly when he cast a glance – he could see the apology in those green irises – and Weasley fixed his gaze over his shoulder, while Granger was too occupied with calming him down to look over.

"I am confused," he said at last, furrowing his brow, and before Ron could try to explain again he said, "Should I be flattered? I feel as though I should be flattered."

Harry visibly deflated in relief and he met Draco's gaze for a few seconds longer before looking down again, doing whatever it was he did with bodies. Weasley, meanwhile, seemed even more incensed than before, and Granger more exasperated than anything.

"_That's_ your reaction to someone stalking you in sixth year?" the redhead demanded, shoving Granger off of him with a flap of his arm. "Are you bloody serious right now?"

Draco shrugged and said with a wry smile, "Who knew I could singularly occupy someone's attention for a prolonged period of time?" He felt a sense of victory when Harry made a choked sound, and he flicked his eyes over to see the other man blushing. He refused to become flustered, even as he grew warm inside. "As they said, that was years ago. And, as you said, he was correct."

"It doesn't change the fact he was flat-out _stalking_ you!"

"Though it does prove his hunches are better than yours," Draco responded, examining his nails in order to seem nonchalant, and the sound that escaped Weasley's throat could only be described as strangled. Hermione actually snorted at that, though she was quick to cover her mouth to hide a grin, and Harry, he could see, was smiling.

"Look," he said, this time in an attempt to pacify the fiery Gryffindor, "Wouldn't it be more beneficial to concentrate on the matter at hand? Your sister is in danger, Weasley; what are you going to do about it?"

"Fucking hell, Malfoy, won't you just sh – " Granger's severe glare actually worked to quieten him down, and when the redhead spoke again, he was coherent. "Two options: find the killer before he finds her, or go to warn Ginny now and focus on keeping her safe."

"Problems with this," Harry prompted.

"Not enough people," Weasley said, and his brilliant blue eyes closed as he ran details along in his mind. "Unless we drop the investigation immediately there's no way we can protect her easily."

"Can she not protect herself?"

"Stupid question, Malfoy," Granger said, and at the Slytherin's quizzical look she explained, "We know that almost all of these chemicals are forcibly administered or unknowing consumed. Cho wasn't a weak witch by any means; I'm sure you can testify to Blaise's skill as well."

Draco said, "Consider me educated," and then resolved to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the discussion.

"Any brothers nearby?" Harry asked.

"Percy, maybe," Weasley said uncertainly. "Think he's away for his job at the moment. The others can't leave theirs without it falling apart."

"So you'll just have to convince Ginny to move in with one of them, or move in with us," Granger pointed out. The three of them grimaced, and Draco got the impression the little miss Weasley was not one anyone could push around, as she continued, "Do you even know where she is right now?"

"Haven't a clue," Weasley said, "But knowing her she's not far from Hogwarts. Far as I can remember she lives relatively close to mum and dad."

Draco looked over at Harry when he detected movement in his peripheral vision; the coroner had pulled off his latex gloves and had taken out one of those iPhones the Slytherin had heard so much about. As he watched Harry put it to his ear, and, upon noticing his gaze, the Gryffindor shook his head, silently telling him not to bring him to attention. Draco nodded and looked elsewhere.

Granger and Weasley were still sorting out their available options as Harry waited, occasionally eyeing the body below him, and Draco decided it was high time to take action and turned away to reach into his pockets. His fingers touched something wet, and he cursed silently as he brought out a crack vial containing something clear – and to his everlasting relief it was just the distilled water he'd forgotten about last week. He knew that he had hydrofluoric acid somewhere within his coat, and he was not eager to accidentally touch it.

A moment later he ended up accidentally touching it, and he was quick to pull away, pull out his wand, and run over to the small, lonely sink, saying "_Aquamenti_" through gritted teeth, rather than pulling on the faucet as a normal person would. He did that a moment later and tried to look as though he hadn't just burned himself with acid, though he could feel eyes on him, and then Granger said, "Wait, Harry, you have Ginny's number?"

"Yeah, she gave it to me a while ago," Harry's voice replied, and then, "No, sorry, Hermione was just asking how I have your number. So you're in Diagon Alley right now?" There was silence filled only by the sound of running water, and then Harry laughed and said, "Sounds like George's been busy. You're going to have to get me some of that."

Weasley was about to say something but he was quickly shushed by Granger, and now Draco turned off the tap, looking at the pads of his fingers – they were fine for now, but the damage would show the following day. He was quick to find a pair of latex gloves (better some protection than no protection, he told himself grimly) and, once thusly prepared, went to fish out the offending vial.

Harry continued talking to Ginny about nonsensical things, things not relating to the gory prophecy on his table, and Draco could see Weasley was starting to get a trifle anxious. Granger kept her hand on his shoulder to keep him from twitching too much, as Draco dropped the vial into one of Harry's many beakers, and the small _clink_ was enough to cause Weasley to jump and glare at him. Draco didn't meet his eyes and instead gazed at Harry, turning his attention back to the Gryffindor's speech.

" – right, right. Listen, Ginny, your brother's getting a little anxious, so I'm going to cut to the chase here." He listened for a bit, and then said, "Yeah, this wasn't just a call from nowhere, sorry. Listen, are you around London right now?" Pause. "Great. Could you come over to the hospital?"

Weasley hissed, "Are you mad? If Ginny sees this – "

"Yes, my hospital, obviously. All right. See you then." Harry pulled his phone away from his ear and ended the call, slipping it into his pocket as he told Ron, "If she sees this she'll be fine. She's not just your little sister anymore, you know."

"Harry – "

"It'll be fine, Ron," Granger said, "Ginny can handle herself."

"What, you're all against me now?" Neither Granger nor Harry responded, and Weasley shook her off and threw up his hands. "Fine, I can see when I'm not wanted, Christ."

He left the room by slamming the door. No one said anything for a while.

"I suppose I should leave as well," Draco said lightly to break the silence. Harry gave him a look with his green eyes and Granger merely nodded in agreement, and the Slytherin shrugged and said, "I'll be off, then. Good seeing you, Harry, Granger."

"I'm sure," Granger said with a flash of teeth, and Draco mentally gave her kudos as he went for the door.

* * *

He was sitting on a park bench with a sandwich that evening, having felt claustrophobic in his quiet, neat, empty flat, and found himsef debating whether he should feed the pigeons cooing and stumbling around in front of him when someone sat down beside him. He didn't say anything, but they did, and all they said was "Malfoy, right?"

"Perhaps," he replies, and with some degree of reluctance he tore off a tiny piece of bread, worked it into crumbs, and scattered it onto the ground. The pigeons were quick to squawk and peck at them.

"Thought so." At this, he looked over to see the person who was talking to him, and he then sighed as he looked away again.

"Afternoon, miss Weasley," he said blankly, bringing his sandwich up to his mouth and taking a dainty bite. The pigeons began to swarm at his feet, and he gave a small kick to scare them off. "I'm afraid I don't have anything of interest to tell you."

"On the contrary," Ginny Weasley said smoothly, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "From what I understand, you're the one I should find if I'm going to die of poison."

"I guarantee nothing," he replied, and the woman smiled. Her teeth were straight. "And, as it stands, it's not likely your brother would let me within a fifteen-foot radius."

"Seems to not be an issue as of right now."

"An exception to the rule," Draco allowed.

"Sure. But hey, I actually came to talk to you for a reason." Draco turned his head to indicate he was paying attention, though he continued to eat, and the miss Weasley continued, "Is it true you're calling Harry by his first name?"

"At his request," he said coolly, though it was much more than that. She didn't seem to notice. "A sign of trust, from what I understand."

"He seems pretty comfortable calling you Draco."

"He seems pretty comfortable doing a lot of things, such as cutting up someone's body," Draco replied with nary a pause.

"He hated you."

"As did many others."

"Yet he seems to have forgiven you."

"One of the few to do so, I agree."

"This is pretty substantial."

"I fail to see your point."

"My point," miss Weasley said, "Is that I need to know if I can trust you."

Draco let out a short laugh; he wasn't sure what else he had been expecting, really. "Don't we all."

"Well, can I?"

"That's for you to decide."

"But I'm asking you." Her eyes were clear and focused on his when he cast his gaze over, and he found himself unable to look away as she repeated, "Can I trust you?"

"Trust me with what?" he asked, resisting the urge to blink.

"With my life. With Harry's life. With my brother's life. They said they're dealing with a serial killer, and I want to know that they will be safe." She blinked, swallowed, and said, "Even if I'm gone."

"Miss Weasley, you shouldn't think that you will – "

"Do you really care that I might die, Malfoy?" Her stare became hard and it was his turn to swallow. "Does my life matter to you?"

"Are you asking me why I think you should not die?" He didn't wait for assent, as he said without hesitation, "As far as it goes, your death would result in the most chaos and increase the likelihood that the criminal will never be caught, given how it would affect your brother and his friends."

Weasley bared her teeth in a strange sort of smile. Draco wasn't sure what to think. "Your honesty is refreshing."

"Yet I doubt that makes you trust me anymore than before," he answered. At this point he had lost his appetite, and he tossed the remains of his sandwich on the ground, watching the pigeons practically maul each other for a morsel. "What exactly is it that you want, miss Weasley? A declaration of my sworn duty to watch after your friends upon your murder?"

"Are you saying that I am going to die?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"We are all going to die someday, miss Weasley. We just hope it will happen later rather than sooner. Much, much later."

"That's not an answer."

"Quite so, it was a redirect. What are you going to do about it?"

"Am I going to die?"

"There is always a possibility of such."

"Malfoy."

"Yes."

"In your personal, highly-esteemed opinion, do you think it is more likely than not that I am going die?"

He didn't answer, which was answer enough. She examined him closely, bright brown eyes darting from his gray ones to and from areas of his face.

Finally she said, "Harry is right to trust you."

That was so unexpected he raised an eyebrow and said mildly, "I'm sorry?"

She stood up and brushed nonexistent dirt off of her legs. She was fashionably dressed and held herself with a proud poise, which should have come as no surprise, and Draco could see why so many had been enamored with her back in their schooldays. Still, he kept silent as she said, "I trust you, Draco Malfoy. I hope you don't let us down."

"I do not understand."

But she was already walking off, her step firm and precise, and he couldn't help but watch her until she was nothing more than a small insignificant figure in his vision.

The pigeons cooing at his feet reminded him of what he needed to do and that he needed to do it; with a sigh he pushed himself to standing and began the trek back to the Ministry, his mind whirling at a million miles per hour as he did so. As far as enigmas went, Ginny Weasley was one of them, but that didn't concern him very much at this point. What was much more important to him was that she seemed… _ready_ to die. As if she'd been expecting it for a while.

Could she know something about the mysterious O.T.? Was she keeping something from them?

He walked along and supposed he would never know.

* * *

He finally got around to casting the spell Granger had taught him on the pink stuff the next morning.

The first thing it told him was that there was water, dissolved protein, erythrocytes, leucocytes, and thrombocytes within its composition. Draco was quick to recognize the primary ingredients for blood, and he nearly recoiled from the sample he had in front of him – the one he'd always had, the one that had gone through a plethora of tests and had shown no obvious results, because it was, without a doubt, far more disgusting than he'd originally thought.

What the spell was telling him was that it was made primariliy from human blood. He tried not to shudder as the spell continued to list the contents of the pink stuff.

Silicone polymers was next, which came as no surprise. He did wonder before why his flame tests produced so little heat in the substance itself; now he knew why. It also explained the pink stuff's texture and general dexterity.

Lastly, the spell told him of bubbles of gas within the pink stuff: nitrogen, mostly, but also some carbon dioxide and monoxide as well. He furrowed his brow, thinking back to the chemistry courses he had taken in a muggle school setting, and remembered that all three had strong chemical bonds. The gases must have been responsible for the constant explosions, though how they seemed to break apart, regenerate and/or otherwise _be_ there indefinitely remained to be seen.

He sat back and tapped the tips of his fingers together, feeling sharp, acute pain in the digits that had touched the hydrofluoric acid the other day. He had done the ideal thing – purchased some calcium carbonate in the form of muggle pills, along with some water-soluble jelly, mixed some ten grams of the calcium carbonate with the jelly and water, and finally put the concoction in a latex glove and wore it for some time as he stared blankly at his television – and as always, it had worked like a charm, but it seemed he would need some ice to alleviate the pain later on. His index in particular pulsed with a steady pain.

It wasn't terribly distracting, so he focused his mind elsewhere as he ceased tapping his fingers. The pink stuff, at this point, was more important. The killer knew of it and had used it before, which made it ever more important that he learn all he could about its chemical makeup, properties, and general tendencies.

And another thing: O.T. had some sort of informant system. People were feeding him information about Draco and Harry and co, that much was obvious given who was being targeting and consequently killed. He knew he needed to find out who, or multiple whos, was responsible and deal with them quickly.

No one came to mind right away. He thought about it for as long as half an hour, weighing options, who saw them most often, who saw them the least, and came up with no reliable informants who would know enough to be able to relay as much information as the killer clearly had.

He sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing when he used his bad fingers, though his customary moping period after a substantial amount of wasted time was interrupted by a niggling in the back of his mind. Something wanted in through his wards, and he sighed as he turned round and opened the door.

In front of him stood a ghostly stag. It was one of the most majestic things he had ever seen, and he had to consciously shut his mouth as the stag's opened and spoke – in Harry's voice, naturally. "Take a wild guess at who died last night," it said, before sighing and saying lifelessly, "Come over as soon as you are able."

With that it then dissipated, and Draco stood shock-still.

He had spoken to the woman just yesterday; how could the killer have worked so quickly? Who could have known that she'd been at the hospital, then the park? They would have followed her to where she was staying, clearly, but even then she would be on guard and her brother would likely have been nearby. What happened to Granger's complicated plan of watching out for the girl?

He locked his workplace behind him this time – no need for any unnecessary risks, though he knew it would hardly help if push came to shove – and hurried forward, steps echoing in the stone halls as he went. The Ministry passed by in a blur of dark grays and whishing cloaks, and then he was above ground, walking quickly through the narrow streets, wand at the ready in his sleeve.

Sooner than he would have thought he arrived at the hospital, and this time the secretary merely waved him through, not looking up through his paperwork. Draco gave him the briefest of nods before descending the stairs, breathing a little heavily as he stopped at Harry's door and paused. After a few moments of waiting, he raised his fist and tapped on the door, and it swung open before he could knock a third time.

Harry stood over the body, per usual, and his hands were as precise and careful as ever – but Draco could see the man was on autopilot, that he wasn't truly thinking but merely doing. Granger had been the one to answer the door, and her eyes were narrowed and focused in concentration as she retreated to the one chair in the place and resettled a laptop computer on her lap.

Weasley was leaning over the sink, and by the shaking of his shoulders Draco knew better than ask. He instead went to the table, opposite Harry, and asked quietly, "What is it you need?"

"Someone to tell me things will get better." His voice was choked, and he abruptly threw his head back briefly as he blinked rapidly. _Tears_, Draco realized belatedly. "Can you do that?"

He looked down at Ginny's body – perfectly intact, her face eerily beautiful in its pale death, freckles standing out against the fair skin – and fought down the rising nausea in his stomach.

"I'm afraid not," Draco said quietly, and looked up to find Harry staring at him, green eyes surprisingly clear and intent even though they gleamed and threatened to spill.

They said nothing for a long time, and Draco found that it wasn't difficult to hold eye contact with what had used to be his enemy – it was in fact a very simple task, and the longer he looked the more he came to appreciate the green in Harry's eyes. There were hints of brown, dashes of spice, that he had never noticed before, and a sort of wise sorrow that plagued all who'd witnessed the end of the Dark Lord.

It was perhaps the most intimate action Draco had ever been a part of, and it was strange that the other party involved was Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the one who had supposedly stalked him in sixth and for years had hated his guts. He found this remarkably unimportant, to his surprise, and it was only when Granger coughed quietly that Harry's eyes flicked away from his, acknowledging Granger's request for attention.

Draco knew he was flustered by refused to show it, willing away the blood pushing to rise to his cheeks and returning his focus to the body in front of him. Harry said something and moved away to go nearer to Granger as Draco noticed something tucked behind Ginny's ear – a piece of paper, it looked like. He cast a doubtful look at Harry and, seeing him occupied, was quick to pluck the paper from its hiding place.

This he unfolded and scanned as quickly as he was able, lest someone took it away from him. In the end he needn't have bothered, as it was only two words long: _Omar Trebblestone_.

His mind made the connection milliseconds afterwards: _O.T._

Ginny had somehow figured out the killer's name. Draco pursed his lips. He knew he would have to bring this to Weasley's attention as quickly as possible, but knew just as well that he would likely be ignored or brushed off. His best bet was to get one of his friends to show him the paper, but the two were talking quietly behind him and he decided it could wait a few more minutes.

There was something else behind Ginny's ear, too, as he leaned over and brushed her hair away from her flesh, to see if there was anything else. It was reminiscent of the black lettering stitched onto that one unfortunate's intestines, though this time it was sewed carefully on the girl's skin. He took a deep breath as he held the ginger hair further back with one hand, the other gingerly pushing the cartilage of her upper ear aside to give him a better view:

_Harry Potter is next._

He pulled his hands away and stood straight, feeling nothing at first. It was logical, his mind pointed out; after being so successful with the girl, why not go after the main target?

But then, a few minutes later, his breath came out as a shudder. His blood ran cold as it drained out of his face and he stumbled back, feeling the nausea from before start to overwhelm him. He fought it valiantly as the logical side of his brain struggled to regain control over his suddenly raging emotions, with limited success, and in the end he gave up and said several octaves higher than usual, "I suggest you take a look at this."

All heads turned at his obvious distress, and he would be embarrassed at his lack of composure were he not so inexplicably worried – _inexplicably_, his mind said with a snicker, for the first time he didn't know what it meant – and Harry was quick to come over and investigate when Draco pointed at Ginny's ear. When he stood up after leaning down to take a peek, he looked over at Draco with wide eyes.

"Weasley, you want this," the Slytherin added, and the redhead slowly made his way over and accepted the note as Draco dropped it in his palm. He unfolded it to read as Draco pressed two fingers hard to each temple, eyes tightly shut as he attempted to alleviate his uneasiness, and Harry relayed the news to Granger with a surprisingly steady voice.

His reaction to those four little words was beyond ridiculous – this he knew to be true. A few weeks before this and he would've merely shrugged and gone on with his day; what would he care if another person was lost? Tens of thousands died each day, was that not so? The death of one other would not be anything more than usual.

_Availability heuristic_, his mind said. _Anecdote. You know this man, just as you knew Blaise_. He bitterly recalled his statistic class he'd taken while he'd been learning about chemistry in a muggle university, and though the class had done more good than harm, he still felt irritated that his mind could so easily classify his distress into exactly what it was.

He was snapped from his reverie when something warm fell on his bony shoulder, followed by a heavy weight, and Draco looked over to see Harry Potter resting his forehead on his shoulder.

He was not sure what to think about this. Neither did Granger nor Weasley, apparently, as they gave him looks of confusion identical to those he sent to them. They looked equally bewildered as he made a few desperate gestures for them to remove the other man, or tell him what to do, or something, anything really.

In the end he held perfectly still, biting his lip, eyes darting around, as Granger and Weasley withdrew into a corner to discuss the tiny slip of paper Ginny had left them. He wasn't about to admit Harry's presence was comforting, but he felt extremely unsettled with the unexpected contact – the unexpected lapse of control, actually.

Perhaps it should not have come as too much of a surprise. He knew that everyone in the room was taxed beyond belief and stressed to the point of unhealthiness in one way or another, and this was further solidified when Weasley let out a prolonged, frustrated sound and threw a beaker against the opposite wall. The crashing glass woke Harry from his daze, and he shot ramrod straight, looking from Draco's shoulder to his face.

Draco struggled to maintain eye contact and, in the end, had to look away at the unreadable look in the Gryffindor's eyes. He wasn't quite sure what to feel – his body rushed with heat, his blood chilled with cold, his mind was a swirling mass of chaotic confusion – and instead settled with empty blankness, working to make his face expressionless as he went to check the letters behind Ginny's ear once more.

Harry watched without comment when Draco touched the stitching directly with a nail, and the Slytherin swallowed once before looking over at the other man, shaping his fingers into scissors and miming cutting something. Harry got his meaning immediately; Draco stepped back as the Gryffindor fetched a pair of impossibly tiny scissors and carefully snipped away at the lettering, turning around to hand him a piece of black stitching no longer than a few millimeters in length. This Draco tucked into a spare vial.

"Will you be able to track it?" Harry asked quietly. His voice scratched like a broken record, and Draco felt a small wave of _something_ rise in his chest. He did not acknowledge it.

"One can hope," he replied, looking at the vial before squeezing it in his fist. With the small piece of black, he was this much closer to finding Omar Trebblestone, if everything went according to plan.

"I'm coming with."

Draco opened his mouth with the automatic response – pointing out that he was a coroner and not an Auror, that is – but shut it again when Harry's gaze became hard. He said instead, "I do not think that is a good idea."

"I'm not safe wherever I go, except when I'm with you."

"Flattering. My heart just skipped a beat." Draco said this dryly in order to get some sort of reaction, but instead all he got was genuine seriousness. "You're sure about this?"

"Obviously Ron's not going to do anything, and Hermione's busy with other things. I might as well. I can't look at her for any longer." Harry tilted his head in Ginny's direction, and said, "Please, Draco, I can defend myself. Hermione's taught me more than just a trick or two, and I was head of the DA, remember."

"Dumbledore's Army," Draco remembered with little degree of fondness. He still found the whole idea of the fighting force rather ludicrous, though he wasn't about to question it at the moment. Instead he gave another halfhearted attempt to dissuade the other man and said, "We really should not risk you. It's one thing to have a Malfoy pass on; it's quite another for the Chosen One to die."

"Do you really care about me dying?"

"Funny you should ask the same thing Ginny did," Draco answered without thinking about it, and Harry blinked at him, confused. Apparently the girl had not told her brother and friends about her meeting with him – he supposed it didn't matter too much, as he said, "Yes, Harry, I care about you _not_ dying. It would be very much preferable if you stayed alive."

"Why?"

Draco looked over to see Weasley now lightly banging his head on the wall as Hermione peered intently at both her iPhone and laptop. Her eyes flickered up to his once, a brief flash of encouragement in her irises, before they flicked back down to her screen. He wasn't sure what to make of it as he turned back to Harry and said matter-of-factly, "Your friends would scatter with you. The wizarding world would crash and burn. Statistically, your death would cause worldwide disaster."

Harry's green eyes flashed and his jaw tightened minutely. "Is that it?"

Draco sighed, knowing the conversation was going nowhere, and yet he was compelled to answer nonetheless. "No, that's not it."

"Then what else?"

"Why do you want to know?" Draco kept his voice low.

"Just humor me, Draco."

The Slytherin sighed and complied. "I'd rather you not die not only because it would be a terrible blow to the wizarding world, but also because you are not the worst person to be around and I appreciate your trust in me." He gave Harry a hard glare, hating himself a little bit for admitting what he'd known for a while. "Satisfied?"

"Very much so," Harry said with a smirk, and Draco had to resist the urge to cause him physical harm.

Instead, he went for giving him the choice one last time. "Are you certain this is what you want to do?"

"Yes."

This time it was not a challenge to maintain eye contact, and when Draco nodded and said, "Then who am I to stop you," Harry did as well, determined, a little fearful but ready.

The Slytherin opened his fingers to reveal the vial and its small contents and removed his wand, pointing it within the class and murmuring the tracking charm. As before, a misty, grayish trail appeared in his mind's eye, and he began to follow it, knowing Harry was close behind. A sense of foreboding weighed heavy on his shoulders as he went up the stairs, but he ignored it as he and Harry pushed out into the London night, a cool breeze lifting the fabric of his pants around his ankles and twirling the hairs behind his ears.

He took a deep breath, looked around one last time, and then turned and set off at a trot, intent on the mist spread out before him with Harry's footsteps echoing behind him.

* * *

"Draco."

"There's no way it could be him."

"The Minister."

"Why would the Minister care about that? And it would hurt him tremendously if Harry died."

"An Auror?"

"Well, maybe, but which one?"

Ron threw his hands up in the air. "How am I supposed to know? We've been working on this case for weeks and we have nothing, like, actually nothing."

"Throw a few more names out, maybe we'll stumble on something."

"Argh, I don't know, Lucius Malfoy? I've got no ideas, Hermione."

The woman looked morosely at the notes in her hand, which she had been meticulously leafing through for the past few minutes, even as her laptop and iPhone glowed beside them.. "Neither do I."

"We're never going to catch them," Ron groaned, and then he rubbed at his eyes as he turned away from his sister's body on the table. "And we have to catch them."

"We'll figure something out," Hermione promised, though it sounded hollow. "Draco and Harry are doing something right now, right?"

"Yeah, but what are the chances they'll be successful? It's Harry, for Chrissakes. He'll probably do something stupid and blow himself up."

"Says you." Ron didn't rise to the jab, and Hermione sighed. "Let's just keep working, Ron. We'll get him eventually. He can't run forever if he keeps on killing like this."

"I hope you're right," Ron replied, and Hermione heard the doubt in his voice echoing in her mind.

* * *

Draco's misty trail led him and Harry directly towards Big Ben, of all places.

"It kind of makes sense," Harry said when Draco voiced the thought aloud. "Ginny said she wanted to look around before she went back to her job in France."

"Does she like giant clocks?"

He could hear Harry shrug, clothes rustling. "Somebody has to." Then he added more darkly, "Else the thing would've been destroyed a long time ago."

Draco felt a smirk play upon his face. "And destroy an English landmark? Harry, I expected better from you."

"You're the one who asked – " Thinking better of it, Harry stopped and muttered, "You're an ass, you know that?" Draco pretended not to notice, knowing that it was miracle enough that the Gryffindor was still on his feet given the shock of Ginny's death.

The trek thus continued largely in silence, interrupted only by their staccato footsteps against the pavement, and together they stopped when they were at the base of the clock tower itself. When they cast their eyes upwards, it was almost as if the structure was curving forward to fall on them.

"I suddenly have a large respect for giant clocks," Draco said without really thinking about it, and nearly had a heart attack when Harry let out a choked laughing sound – the other man had been so miserably quiet for the past few minutes that it took him completely by surprise, and looked over with a frown, saying a little bit testily, "What?"

"Large respect, giant clocks." Draco didn't get the joke, if there was one, and his expression on his face said as such. Harry flapped a dismissive hand. "Never mind, it's not important. Where's the trail now?"

Draco stared upwards for a few more seconds, mentally resolving to go sightsee a bit more often as he lowered his gaze to the ground. The misty trail was beginning to dissipate, slowly; he'd need to recast the charm. "This way," he replied, and Harry dutifully followed him when he began to walk.

They continued at a brisk pace until Draco needed to stop and, as predicted, recast the charm. His nervousness was beginning to grow as time went on, though he wasn't quite sure why – perhaps because he feared going somewhere where he might lose his life? He looked back at Harry to see if the Gryffindor was in a similar state as he, and instead felt a ridiculously soft wave of concern upon meeting his eyes and seeing the haunted look within them.

He turned around again, feeling slightly perturbed at himself and at Harry, and he pushed the thoughts away to think about them later. Unwittingly, the thoughts of Blaise he had been repressing rose into awareness, and by the time he had gotten himself under control he could see the trail was beginning to thicken. They were getting closer.

"Careful," Draco warned quietly, slowing his pace. He saw that they were nearing some sort of darker alleyway, and had to resist the urge to laugh because it was terribly clichéd for something to happen in that sort of place.

Apparently Harry was thinking the same thing, as the Gryffindor murmured, "This would make an excellent movie," and Draco gave in to his urge and let out a small chuckle as they turned down into the alley. The mist bunched up at a door on the left building, and when Draco tested the doorknob, he found it was locked. Closer inspection revealed that the hinges were rusting and brittle, and rather than deal with the door as a whole, he instead smashed his elbow into the middle of the metal braces.

"I regret this decision," he said aloud, as the hinge broke and pain bloomed in his arm. Harry said nothing as he kicked at the lower hinge, used his wand to destroy the top one, and then raised his leg and slammed it against the door. He was surprised he had the physical strength to do actually kick it down; then again, for all of his slenderness, he did walk almost everywhere, as he abhorred public transportation and found no need for a car in a city such as London.

The door, in any case, landed on the floor with a solid _thud_, and from where they stood, Draco could only see darkness before him. He held his arm out when he felt Harry making a move to go first, whispering "Lumos" under his breath before taking a few steps forward. Fear made his hand tremble, and the tip of his wand quivered as he held it up, eyeing the seeming impenetrable darkness before him with a profound unease.

He could hear Harry moving around behind him and suddenly the place flickered to life – the coroner had found a light switch. Draco put his wand away as soon as he whispered the counterspell and then inhaled sharply at what he could see. "This is a chemist's heaven," he breathed, surveying the innumerable flasks, vials, beakers, Bunsen burners, shelves and shelves lined with carefully labeled and organized chunks of elements and solutions. His hands itched to do something with all of the ingredients lying about, but he resisted that urge and focused on looking around some more.

His eyes settled onto a black jar about the size and dimensions of a teakettle, and he advanced towards it while Harry tinkered around with something he'd found in the corner. He wasn't sure why he was drawn to this jar in particular, as he lifted it off of the shelf and tested its weight – not too heavy, at least not as heavy as he had expected – but he could feel unease writhe in his stomach and he rested it on the nearest flat surface, a cleaned counter whose end was lined with empty flasks. He loosened the lid so he could pry it off, and he took a few moments to hold his breath as he did so.

Pink greeted him from within the black jar, and upon poking it with his wand, he observed it had the same viscosity and texture as his sample in his lab. He cast his eyes upwards and found another black jar on top of a different shelf; another one resting on a countertop; two more rolling around on the wooden, creaky floor. In fact, the more he looked, the more he could spot, and he slowly began to feel nauseous. The pink stuff was made with human blood, that was for certain, which could only mean one thing.

"Harry," Draco said, and without a word the Gryffindor came over to him, eyes flickering with the unspoken question. "I would recommend calling for Weasley, as soon as possible. Preferably now."

Harry gave him a quizzical look but said nothing, as Draco carefully settled the jar's lid back into place before pushing it away from him, swallowing hard. He wasn't sure what happened – time moved quickly yet slowly, in his mind – but then the room was spinning and he could feel his knees attempting to give way beneath him. All of this pink stuff had to come from somewhere, not just the bodies Trebblestone was leaving about for Harry and friends to find, and the Slytherin could only wonder how many had actually died because of the mysterious person. So many people, dead, because of some person's desire to kill people -

"Draco," he heard Harry said, his voice distant, followed by a more urgent, "Draco, come on, don't you dare pass out on me here."

_I'm hyperventilating_, he realized distantly, and then thought, _No, I'm having a panic attack_. He tried to focus on breathing and failed as a wave of intense fear came over him, and soon all he could focus on was _if I keep going with this investigation I might die_. He wrapped his arms around himself and bit his lip, feeling a drop of sweat slide down from his temple.

"Deep breaths," he heard in his ears, and he latched onto the voice, working to do as it said as Harry continued, "In, out, Draco, there we go. Keep your oxygen levels even, you're going to have an overbalance of carbon dioxide if you keep this up. Slow down."

He wasn't sure how much time passed – it felt like an hour, but in reality it was probably closer to fifteen minutes – but he could feel himself physically calm down as his breathing evened out. He didn't realize he was trembling until Harry steadied his swaying with a hand on his shoulder, and then he shut his eyes and tried not to think about death or blood or bodies for a few moments, focusing intently on anything else, which in this case ended up to be flora, green leaves and plants, so on and so forth.

When he opened his eyes again he could feel his calm returning, and he said with only the slightest shake in his voice, "Apologies, Harry."

"No need," the Gryffindor said. "I can recognize a panic attack when I see one. Just keep calm." His green, green eyes glinted when Draco looked over to meet them. "By any chance, were you diagnosed with PTSD after the war?"

"Wasn't everyone?" Draco answered, wincing as he felt a steady pounding at the base of his skull. Harry's hand was still on his shoulder, and Draco focused on its warmth to keep his head clear. "Mine was not as bad as most, and I have been off of treatment for a few years now."

"That explains it," Harry said with a nod, and when he made a move to lift his hand from Draco's shoulder the Slytherin unwittingly froze, prompting the coroner to keep it where it was. He hardly batted an eye at Draco's reaction. "You don't like going outside too much, either. Agoraphobia, then."

"Perhaps," Draco said, feeling oddly proud of himself for knowing what agoraphobia was. Then he actually thought about it. "Actually, not perhaps. That makes a surprising amount of sense." Privately he knew that it explained his past panic attacks as well, and then felt a sense of shame that such a thing kept him so private and isolated. Irrational fear of public places was something he could understand to some extent, but his dislike of it was profound.

"You're all right now?" Harry asked after watching Draco think for a few moments, and the Slytherin gave an absent nod, gray eyes slightly glazed as he blinked rapidly. Pink stuff. _Right_. Back to work. Harry moved away, taking his warmth with him, and Draco refused to acknowledge the tiny part of him that bemoaned its absence as he refocused on the black jar again, picking it up and placing it in the middle of the room. There was an ominous dark stain where he placed it, and he forced his mind elsewhere as he stood and trotted towards the shelves lining the walls.

He spent the rest of the time ferrying the black jars until they were all piled up next to the first original jar, and then he took a few seconds to count them. Sixteen in total – he had to wonder how many dead bodies that would mean. _Probably sixteen_, his mind said dryly, and he frowned at that, knowing Weasley would be none too pleased with both the lack of any evidence and the fact so many deaths had occurred under his nose.

"Draco, come over here for a second."

When the Slytherin came over and peered over Harry's shoulder, he could feel his eyebrows inching into his hairline as Harry pointed something out to him. "Do you know how to use these?"

"Is he a muggle?" Draco said, echoing his statement, and he nudged Harry aside so he pick the item up. "This is a Beretta 92FS, used commonly by the police forces of the allied forces. Why would he have one of these?"

"Why do you know what model that is?"

"How do you think I got a fake P.I. identification? You pick up on things here and there." Harry knew this was a flimsy answer but he didn't press, instead giving Draco a look, and the Slytherin flashed him a smirk before saying, "I do know how to use this, in answer to your question. Is there ammunition nearby?"

"Looks like this box has a few shells left, yeah." Harry handed it to Draco, who continued to examine the gun. The safety was on, and it had half of its rounds loaded – five shots. Draco decided to leave it as it was for now as he scanned the box's contents, and Harry said, "Do you really think you need that?"

"You're the one who asked me if I knew how to use it."

"It was more out of curiosity than anything. I didn't actually intend for you to take it with you." Harry tilted his head at him, a curiously bird-like motion. "You might hurt yourself with it."

"Your concern is touching," Draco answered, lifting an eyebrow, and was answered with silence as Harry met his eyes and held them. Slowly the Slytherin got the idea that the Gryffindor actually _was_ concerned, and that he shouldn't have said what he did so flippantly, and thus he backtracked and told him, "I'll be careful. I have dealt with firearms before."

Harry stared at him for a few moments longer, and then shook his head. "You are full of surprises, Draco."

"As are you," he replied without really thinking about it, giving the gun one last scan before tucking it into the back of his jeans, shifting his coat until the weapon was hidden from view. Harry watched this wordlessly, and then knelt down next to him when Draco did, reaching out to take another one of the black jars in the center of the room.

Together, he and Harry found that every single jar was filled with the pink stuff, and he had to turn away when they were all open to keep himself from panicking any more than he already was. It was fine when he couldn't see how many people were dead, but he knew how much blood there was in a human body (about 5.5 liters), and he had to wonder how much O.T. had taken from each person to make this amount of pink stuff.

Harry was quick to notice his obvious distress and began to nudge him up and out, only stopping when Draco found himself back in the dark alleyway. He took a few moments to calm down before looking up at the sky far above him. From what he could tell, a significant amount of time had passed – and Weasley still had not arrived.

When he voiced this thought to Harry, the man replied, "At least O.T. hasn't, either," and Draco conceded the point, as he pressed himself against the rough wall of the building behind him. The door had led to only that single room and he hadn't noticed any other ways in or out, so he had to wonder what the building housed. A business, perhaps? A series of flats? He didn't care enough to find out, and so he supposed he would never know.

He jumped when Harry's hand found a perch on his shoulder, likely in an attempt to keep him from freaking out again, and it took some time for the tenseness to seep out of his muscles at the contact. He still didn't know how to feel about it, even as he gazed at the hand for a few moments before looking up at Harry, whose face was looking towards the entry of the alley.

_Comforted,_ his mind supplied, which he supposed, grudgingly, was true, to a certain extent. He hadn't had so much as a hug since the time when he had been very young, and even then had never been too fond of being touched by others – not even when he was dating Pansy, as far as he could recall. There had always been that little bit of discomfort in the back of his mind, in the pit of his stomach, at any contact, and he'd never been the social butterfly since he'd been given the Dark Mark.

"There he is," Harry said suddenly, and Draco snapped his head up, leaning over so he could see. Indeed, Weasley and Granger were picking their way to them, and for the first time in a long time, Draco could feel the ice-cold feeling of relief trickle down his spine, only to stop when Harry said, sounding a little unsure, "He's holding something in his hand, though."

Draco couldn't quite see what Harry was talking about until the two were closer, and indeed, Weasley was holding something – a bottle, to be precise. It looked familiar somehow, and he frowned as he recognized it: the bottle O.T. had given to him in order to frame him, wasn't it? He'd been meaning to get rid of that, but it had slipped his mind in all of the chaos of recent days.

It took a few moments for him to recognize that, since Weasley had found it, it would spell a plethora of problems for him. When he did, he groaned aloud and accidentally smacked his head against the wall of the building behind him. He ignored Harry's questioning look as he muttered, "Goddammit, O.T."

"Harry, get away from him," Weasley snarled as soon as he was within earshot.

Harry didn't move – if anything, his hand on Draco's shoulder tightened. "Why?"

"Ron decided it would be a fantastic idea to go raid Draco's workplace," Granger answered, sounding as exhausted as she appeared as she sent Draco an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Malfoy. I dispatched your wards without your permission."

"You did an excellent job," Draco said with a sigh, earning him a small smile. "I didn't even notice you did so."

"Are we going to ignore the fact we found this there?" Here Weasley waved the bottle around, and Draco could see Harry's eyes light up in recognition before turning to him, eyebrows raised. "You know, the bottle with the same stuff Hermione and I ended up accidentally eating?"

"I can explain."

"Sure you can," Weasley sneered, "Especially since this bottle was under charms in order to stay hidden. Not suspicious at all, am I right?"

"I don't have time for this," Draco grumbled, and then turned to the woman in the group. "Granger, you might want to go inside this room."

"Found something, huh." Granger didn't wait for an answer as she slipped around him and went inside, calling after her, "Get in here, Ron, we can deal with the bottle later."

"Don't think this is over," Weasley said with a snarl, and Draco, in a fit of immaturity, stuck his tongue out at him as the redhead passed, even as he threw over his shoulder, "You're going to be under arrest for this."

"I don't care," Draco replied, looking over at Harry. The green eyes were bleak, but it was fairly obvious the man didn't believe Draco to be suspicious, and this, Draco found, warmed him from within.

Neither of them said anything for a few moments, listening as Weasley and Granger spoke to each other as they looked around. Then Harry said, "What do we do now?"

"I stay with you," Draco replied, and when Harry gave him a confused look the Slytherin said dryly, "You didn't forget that O.T.'s going after you next, correct?"

Harry's sudden silence was answer enough.

* * *

**Not so much of a cliffhanger this time around, but we're getting close to the end now. Problem: the next chapter isn't actually written yet, so an update on the 29th is unlikely, but keep those fingers crossed. But hey, we made it to O.T.'s lab! And we have their name. Now just to see who it is, because it isn't an OC.**

**Thanks to all of your people reading this - you putting this in your Favorites list hasn't been missed. And of course to the reviewers, thank you very much for your kind words. To my sister, I hope you realize that this story should cover your next three birthdays or something.**

**Other general notes: I like to think that Draco is asexual, and that Harry is pansexual. **


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